Birds of Prey
by Riptide Monzarc
Summary: The young twins of the Hawke brood have lived their entire lives in secret, eschewing any notoriety lest they bring the templars' scrutiny upon their family. Yet now the Blight looms, and they don't have their father to guide them through it, so they do what they must to survive. Despite their wishes, however, fate has too much in store for either of them to wallow in obscurity.
1. Ostagar

Author's note: This is the second story in the _Sanguinarius Sanctus_ series, which is set in the Dragon Age universe and explores the power of blood. The first story of the series is called _Tainted._ _Birds of Prey_ coincides with the plot of Dragon Age II, although there are significant deviations from canon, and as the story goes on, we'll see more of the wider world and work through some of the consequences of the events from _Tainted_. If the reader is interested, the first story of _S. S._ can be found in the author's profile.

Thanks for reading, and please review!

Trigger warning: This is a mature story, and as such, will often have violent themes and explicit language, as well as sexually suggestive situations. If such content offends, please beware.

* * *

The sun rose readily over the ancient fortress, as it had for each of the previous twenty days Carver Hawke had been there. The odd, thick storm clouds still massed to the South, looking somehow blacker by the hour, yet the army's encampment was plagued with dust and flies from the latrines. The previous evening, Carver had pulled latrine duty with Paquis, an elf from a farmhold in South Reach. They started before dawn, and by midmorning the flies were simply _awful_, as big as his thumb. They had to dig the new trench just ten yards from the old one, to keep the sector from growing too rapidly; with their dull spades, the work was hard, especially since they had to wear their splintmail and weapons. So after only a few hours' work, both human and elf were ready to faint from the stench of shit and their own sweat, and they decided to break early for their midday meal.

When they were a hundred metres from the offal ditches, Carver hazarded removing his helmet. The full faceplate offered protection from the Maker-damned flies, but it was too stifling in the full heat of day. Luckily, in both of the battles he'd participated in so far, the darkspawn had had the good sense to attack at dusk. "I think I'm liable to die before we make it to the mess," he sighed, wiping what felt like a quart of sweat from his brow.

"Then the serge'd make me carry you all the way back to the latrines, Hawkeye," the elf pointed out, only half-jokingly.

Carver shrugged, fixing his helmet to his belt. "At least I wouldn't have to smell them anymore, Paq," he retorted.

The elf doffed his helmet as well, when they were a bit nearer the great open-sided tent which housed one of the army's three mess halls. They'd become friends of a sort, Carver and Paquis, the warrior and the rogue. Carver knew none of the soldiers from Lothering who'd answered Bann Ceorlic's call for volunteers, and his two sisters certainly wouldn't appreciate him making any more local acquaintances who might want to come calling; once the king's business was done in Ostagar, Paquis would go back to his own village across the Imperial Highway, and the two would likely never meet again. Assuming either of them lived to see this place behind them, that made the elf an acceptable comrade.

"The next battle's gonna be tomorrow," Paquis mumbled, around a mouthful of grey stew. "Heard whisper of it outside the serge's tent, last night."

Carver nearly choked on his stringy ham. "You mad? Sneaking around after what happened to Shelby?"

The elf snorted into his watered-down ale. "That bastard couldn't sneak his way past a lame mabari with its nose cut off." Paquis glanced around, making sure nobody else was in whispering distance. "They say it's gonna be in the valley, right at the foot of the fortress."

That sent ice cutting through the human's stomach. Ostagar was supposed to be a hard-point, where the army would stockpile supplies and tend its injured while it pushed South into the Korcari Wilds, but each of the three major engagements with the darkspawn had seen the fighters march right back to the fortress rather than capitalise upon the victories they'd seen. "I wonder how many times we've got to retreat before they stop saying we're winning," Carver grumbled, suddenly off his appetite. He kept eating, though, too mindful of the sergeant's low opinion of waste in his company.

"Maybe we can break 'em in the canyon," Paquis suggested, his tone far from optimistic. "Not shaping up like you thought it would, Hawkeye?"

Carver swallowed the last of his ham and started on the stew, taking a couple of mouthfuls before he saw fit to answer. "I didn't think," he admitted. "Just needed to get away from home, is all. Now I just want to be able to go back with my head high and on my shoulders, and see my sisters again." One sister in particular, he thought, though he didn't feel the need to mention it to his acquaintance.

The rogue slurped up the last of his stew and dumped his cube of ham onto Carver's rough-hewn tray. "Why didn't they come, too?" He asked, with a shrug. "Plenty of girls in armour around."

"They're...not the fighting type," Carver improvised, silently cursing himself for bringing up his magical siblings. "And someone needed to stay behind and take care of Mother."

Paquis let the matter drop with a grunt, looking over his shoulder. "Speaking of skirts," he drawled, "I've got an appointment with a campie I don't want to miss. I'll need you to cover for me until three bells."

The warrior's brow arched. "Why can't you sneak off to see her tonight?"

The elf stretched as he stood. "Why is Shelby hanging in a cage?" He shook his head. "Three bells," he warned. "Maybe four."

"Fuck off, Paq," Carver answered casually. "If the serge comes asking why we're not half done by two bells, I'll tell 'em you were off digging a trench of your own." He winked, and was rewarded with a light tap to his shoulder.

"See you later, Hawkeye," Paquis called, once he'd turned to leave.

Carver waved the elf away and returned to his food, passing the balance of the hour with slow nibbles and short pulls of ale until his plank of wood and clay tankard were both clean. Then he stood, too, and struck out for the camp's quartermaster; he needed a new pair of boots, and it wouldn't do to return to his odious duty on a full stomach, unless he wanted to waste his lunch after all. As he trod toward the encampment's entrance, a warbler's call caught his ear, and his eyes lifted skyward almost of their own accord. In that instant, he nearly tripped over another elf-a quick glance told him that she must be a servant, given the ill-fitting peasant clothes she wore. He caught her just as she stumbled away from him. "Watch it," he cautioned, but he let her go when he felt her tense up. He meant to step around her and continue on his way, but just as he turned to go, the woman sucked in a breath.

"Knifey...?"

The name brought him to a halt, and he looked more closely at the elf. Recognition hit him all at once-the dark hair, caramel-brown skin and crimson eyes stood out as proudly in his memory as though he'd only seen the girl the day before. A grin took his lips as a sudden surge of joy flooded through his chest. "Adra!" And then he pulled her up into a hug, nearly crushing her against him; her hair smelt vaguely of charcoal, just as it had all those years ago. He hardly felt the elf hugging him back, thanks to his splintmail, but she managed to get his attention with a few swift kicks to the shins. Finally he put her down, still smiling. "Maker, I haven't seen you since..." Then his lips faltered, a sudden stab of fear lancing through the happiness which the impromptu reunion had generated. "Are you...on the run, Adra?" Her true name was Athadra, but she'd earned the elided version in retaliation for her own rebranding of his given name.

A well-armed Grey Warden, whom Carver had thought simply a passerby in the tumult of the camp, stepped closer and spoke up. "If an apostate's first thought is to run into the middle of a Chantry-observing army, I'd have to wonder how they'd managed to escape in the first place. I'm Alistair, soon to be the no-longer-most junior Grey Warden in Ferelden." Though the man played at wiping his eye, Carver detected a hint of a threat behind his jests. "It'll be quite an honour to give up the mantle at long last..."

The regular soldier relaxed, comforted to know that his childhood friend wasn't simply a fugitive from the Circle Tower. "So," he ventured, as Athadra stooped to pick up what must have been her Circle stave, "you're joining the Grey Wardens?" He gave the short-haired blond man, Alistair, a sidelong glance. Though it was well-known that King Cailan favoured the Grey Wardens above any other fighting force, their pitiful numbers and endless mission did little to bring them respect amongst the men-at-arms of the regular army. "Was the Circle _that_ bad?"

Her fist took him by surprise when it collided with his armoured stomach, but he remembered that the elf had always been stronger than her slight frame would've suggested. "Yes it were, thank you very much...and all thanks to you and that sodding sister of yours."

Carver winced, suddenly remembering the day all-too-clearly; she was ten, he and his twin sister Bethany nine, while their older sister, Cethlenn, was a few weeks from turning thirteen. A self-conscious cough tore him out of his reverie, and Alistair spoke up again.

"It looks like I'm at a disadvantage, here. You both know me, but I only know one of you..." The Grey Warden looked from human to elf, expectantly.

Athadra stepped backward and gestured between the two men. "Sorry! Alistair, this is Carver. I knew him and his family in Lothering, before I got caught."

Carver forced a chuckle, his lips twisting into a bit of a grimace. "I, uh...might have played a bit of a part in that," he said sheepishly.

"Might have?" He stumbled backward a step, this time, from the force of her open palm smacking into his sternum. "You and Beth ran off and left me! How were I supposed to know the boy's father were a templar, anyway?"

Carver made a show of surrendering, his empty hands held high. "I tried writing to you, honest," he claimed, remembering the letter he'd scribbled. "But Father said it wouldn't've gotten through..." He shook his head, his ears still ringing from the argument he'd had with the man; Carver had only relented when the risk to his apostate siblings had been spelled out for him. "I'm really sorry, Adra. We didn't know, either...I promise, we didn't." He swallowed, looking at the griffon crest and blue-and-silver padding Alistair's armour bore. "And you look like you've done well for yourself. It's a big honour, joining the Wardens." He tried at a smile, but felt it falter under the weight of years that he'd not seen the elf.

Then Athadra broached the obvious question, which Carver again hadn't had the foresight to avoid. "How is Mister Hawke, anyway?"

A spasm twitched over the soldier's cheeks. When would he ever learn to stop mentioning his family in front of strangers? "Dead," he allowed, after a moment. "Three years come Kingsway."

Athadra seemed to have no answer to that, but her large companion came to her rescue. "Sorry to hear that. I don't mean to interrupt this _rendez-vous_, but I was just taking Athadra to get some grub. Do you want to come along?" Something deep in the man's expression was less than inviting, but when Carver heard the Grey Warden's stomach audibly rumble, he put it down to simple hunger.

"Just came from the mess," Carver sighed, swallowing the odd mixture of relief and disappointment that rose within him; seeing his childhood friend amidst all of the bustle of warfare was too strange to take in all at once. "But hey," he pressed, looking into Athadra's blood-coloured eyes, "you and I should catch up after the next battle, Adra. Rumour has it, it's tomorrow evening...though how they know when the darkspawn will show up is a mystery to me."

The Grey Warden spoke up once more. "You're welcome," he drawled, an indulgent grin tugging at his lips.

Carver shook his head. "I'll look you up in a couple of days; the Wardens aren't hard to find." He pointed to the distinctive armour Alistair wore. Their tents were coloured similarly, cordoned off from the rest of camp. "Maybe once this is all over, you can come back to Lothering and visit." He nearly bit his tongue on the offer, frightened that she would ask about her own mother and father, whom he hadn't seen nor spoken to since the day she'd been taken from them, nine years before-fully half of his lifetime.

Instead, the elf simply nodded. "I...think I'd like that," she admitted, an unfamiliar hesitation in her expression. His heartbeat hitched a few steps faster, as an echo of a childish crush flitted in the back of his mind, even as he noticed an odd shadow in her gaze. Athadra rewarded his nervous smile with one of her own. "I'll keep an eye out once the next fight's done. Try not to die, knifey."

Carver brought his clenched fist to his sternum in the common soldier's salute, inclining his head for a moment. Then, not trusting himself to speak, the warrior forged ahead, leaving his old friend in the care of her Grey Warden escort. The day's heat sharpened as he haggled with the quartermaster over new boots; he'd been issued a pair, and wasn't due for another three months or more, so he'd have to purchase what he wanted out of his own pocket. Giving the old pair in trade saved a bit of the meagre coin he'd managed to hoard-unlike most of the men in his regiment, he'd opted to have three quarters of his pay sent directly to his mother, and that left him only coppers to amuse himself with. A bit of salvage from his battles had earned him enough for a few drams of contraband whiskey. His fellow fighting men, and even a couple of the women-at-arms, seemed to enjoy donating the lion's share of their earnings to the camp followers who'd set up a shadow-encampment just to the North of the fortress. It was frowned upon, though tolerated, by the royal commissioners.

Carver had little interest in testing the limits of his sergeant's tolerance, either for bawdiness or tardiness, so he donned his helmet and hoofed his new boots back to the latrines to fall back to his duty. When the sergeant came asking after Paquis, Carver said he'd just gone off to get himself a splash of water. The older man was suspicious, but when the helmed elf returned just a few moments later, he suffered only a harsh verbal upbraiding before the sergeant stalked off. The digging took human and elf late into evening, but by the time they were done, a week's worth of waste trenches lay ready for use. Together, Carver and Paquis took a final meal and retired to their company's barracks tent scant moments before curfew sounded.

The structure was larger than the royal pavilions, but not nearly so fanciful; plain off-white canvas of the same make as a fishing ship's sail, with unfinished wooden beams to give it structure against the storms which had yet to lash the fortress, and row upon row of three-tiered bunks. Carver parted company with his companion once they reached the tent, glad for his top bunk. Even visiting the latrine after-hours courted an accusation of desertion, so more than one soldier went to sleep with too much ale and too small a bladder, to the detriment of any who might sleep below them. The night passed fitfully, for the rumour Paquis mentioned seemed to have spread of its own accord, and many of Carver's fellow soldiers kept themselves up until the small hours with whispered prayers or drinking. Tension only increased when the sergeant roused them an hour after sunrise, rather than an hour before, and set everyone to preparing their arms and armour for _inspection_. Carver's burden was lighter than some, for he kept his wide, fluted greatblade razor-sharp and wrapped in oilcloth to keep off the sweat from his back.

A few splints in his armour were tinged with a bit of rust, whether from blood or sweat or even spilt stew, and he spent a few hours worrying over them with a file and a bit of hemp oil until they shone as grey as the rest of his suit. He polished his helmet and dug the grime from the flutes in his greatblade until noon, but soon after, Carver ran out of chores with his armour. It didn't glitter like the plate of the knights, but he was proud of his work, all the same. He caught Paquis still sharpening his daggers and muttering to himself about an itch which had plagued him in the night, so the warrior left the rogue to take a light midday meal; if there was a battle in the offing, he preferred himself taut with a bit of hunger, rather than fully sated. Afterward, Carver made himself useful by chopping wood and hauling water for a few hours, until it came time for the commissioner's inspection.

Bann Ceorlic was far too old to take to war himself, and he had a spendthrift daughter who'd never be caught lifting anything heavier than a cat, much less a bow or blade. Thus one of Ceorlic's trusted advisors stood in his stead as Teyrn Loghain's commissioner went through the three ranks of men and women from Lothering and the outlying settlements who owed the bann their allegiance. As an unseasoned swordsman with potential, Carver's lot was at the right end of the middle rank, where he might swing his greatblade unhindered by allies and yet gain more experience before taking a more honoured position in the front. When the commissioner passed him by, the man gave him a perfunctory tap on the shoulder; Carver ignored the prod, his heartbeat echoing inside his helmet, and the commissioner moved on. Eventually the man nodded, turning to Ceorlic's lieutenant.

"I believe these dogs'll do," the commissioner growled. "Take 'em across the bridge."

Ceorlic's man, the son of an Orlesian knight in service to Ceorlic's father, simply nodded and gestured to the sergeant. Carver realised that he didn't even know the man's name, so little did he speak; having an Orlesian accent might have been the height of fashion thirty years ago, but it was clearly a liability in the midst of a Fereldan army in the present day.

"Right, pups," the sergeant barked. "Fall into line!"

The company acted as one, borne of hours spent drilling for discipline over the past month. The three ranks merged into a single crisp line, and at the sergeant's gesture, the mass of metal-clad soldiers set to marching through the encampment. They headed East, across the great, crumbling bridge which spanned the canyon Ostagar had been built to command. The sun turned red as it set at their backs, and in the gathering darkness, they took position with four other companies amidst the thick woods of a sloping hill. As always, the common soldiers of Carver's company knew nothing; they stood hidden in the trees, waiting for the call to advance.

Carver's tongue grew heavy in his mouth as whispers and crickets sounded around him; he knew Paquis was somewhere nearby, but he did not dare try and seek the elf out, too mindful of how that might look to any commissioners or sergeants milling around behind them. His stomach tightened from nerves and hunger, but the minutes dragged on, for Maker knew how long. He said a short prayer for his mother and his two sisters, and finally for himself, but then he tried to clear his mind of what was to come-the mindless, ravening beasts who knew only slaughter, who would see all of Ferelden burnt and rotting if not for men like him, willing to fight and die to check the monsters. Carver tried to find the calm that Andraste was said to have attained, even in the face of Her own execution by fire, and he hoped that if he were to fall, someone would see his body to the pyre.

The darkness ahead of the soldiers, to the South, began to lift strangely. Those churning storm clouds were drawing closer, as evidenced by the intermittent flashes of lightning which occasionally threw the field before them into sharp relief. Yet in the distance, beyond the dry plain, the side of a far mountain seemed to catch fire as though it were a volcano. Carver's breath caught as he watched the dull orange glow crawl down the mountainside, his fingers tensing at his sides; the monsters were coming, he could tell, and any moment might bring the call to charge down their hill and into the teeth of the fiends. But the call failed to materialise, even when the rumble of the darkspawn's advance shook through the soles of his new boots and rustled the boughs around him. Still the call did not come, when the formless mass of darkspawn broke over the open fields, sending massive fireballs before them, propelled either by magic or the sort of craftiness only an Archdemon was supposed to instill in the monsters. When the soldiers inside the canyon let loose with arrows and sent Ferelden's famous mabari hounds to engage with the vanguard, Carver felt his spine tingling with anticipation, mixed with fear.

But the command simply did not sound, not even when the darkspawn rushed into the canyon to face King Cailan's forces head-on. There were so many of the tainted creatures on the field, even with battle noisily joined in the valley, that Carver might have doubted whether the hundred-and-fifty-odd soldiers which stood in the trees around him would be enough to make the difference. Surely, Carver told himself, the king would require their aid any minute now. But the minute passed, and the one after that, with the horde swelling before his very eyes and silence from his superiors ringing in his ears.

Finally, after what felt like another hour of listening to the battle raging half a kilometre to his right, Carver heard a great cheer lift from the fighters in the canyon. He swiveled his head, and through the eyeholes in his helmet he spied a great burst of flame spouting upward from the top of the Tower of Ishal. With laboured breaths which echoed oddly inside his helmet, Carver reached up to grab the hilt of his greatblade, certain he'd have need of it presently-if they did not charge soon, the darkspawn would surely discover them where they stood, regardless.

At long last, Carver discerned the yells of command from the officers at his back. "Retreat!" He heard his sergeant bark. "Pull out, pups! Back up the hill!"

It took the soldier a moment to register what was happening, but when the sergeant repeated his orders, Carver found himself backing up the steep grade as quickly as his fresh boots would allow. His stomach felt hollow when he finally made the plateau, and saw the splintmail-clad men and women of his company emerge from the trees around him. No one spoke except to bark more orders, for them to fall into line and set to marching. Carver's legs felt like lead, but he obeyed, putting one foot in front of the other until the ruined walls of Ostagar had fallen away from him and the winding road to the Imperial Highway spread out in front.


	2. Taking Wing

The army was hardly disciplined as it beat a retreat North, along the Imperial Highway. The anxiety which the prospect of battle had instilled was left unresolved by quitting the field, and what had entered Ostagar as a well-regulated column exited it as a formless snake, writhing in upon itself as companies broke apart, despite the barking orders of superiors upon horseback. Some few hours before dawn, Carver and Paquis reunited by accident, and marched side-on-side in silence for half a mile before the elf finally spoke up.

"Long live the king," Paquis muttered, bitterly.

Carver blinked, suddenly nervous. "What do you mean?" Murmurs of conversation surrounded them, but he still whispered at his softest register, confident that the elf's sharp ears could pick it up.

"What do you think?" The elf shot back, swallowing a bark. "You were there, Hawkeye. You saw the darkspawn funneling into the valley."

"But..." The warrior blinked again, stumbling over a crack in the Highway and catching himself on the armoured man in front of him. After muttering an apology, Carver glanced back. "The king could have called the retreat and be ahead of us," he ventured, sounding even less convinced than he felt.

"Don't be an idiot," Paquis sneered. "Cailan's dead, and so are the shem lords closest to him."

Carver's empty stomach felt like lead. "Do you think the king died before we pulled back? Or after?"

Paquis' armour jostled with his shrug. "Doesn't matter," the rogue spat. "When I saw that sodding tower light up like a candle, I was sure that was the signal to charge."

"Me, too," the warrior echoed, and they spent another few hundred yards without breaking further words. "Do you think we'll regroup in Lothering or Redcliffe, and wait for reinforcements?"

"Not a chance," the elf replied. "They're marching us too hard for that." He shook his head. "If I had my guess, I'd say you're for Denerim, Hawkeye."

Carver stumbled again, but managed to catch himself without disturbing anyone in front of him. "Me?" A brow rose, and his voice dropped so low that he feared his friend might not hear. "You're going to run?"

"An hour after we bed down," Paquis confirmed, under his breath. "Old Paq's got a homecoming he'd rather miss."

"Hang on," Carver interjected. "I thought you said you were from South Reach."

Another barked laugh. "I lied, Hawkeye," the elf admitted. "Don't ask me why."

Carver nodded; whatever betrayal he might have felt at the falsehood was lost amidst the sea of uncertainty which the renewed march had bred in him. "Where will you go?"

The rogue's answer was long in coming. "West Hill," he said at last. "And then a boat out of this place." Carver chanced a glance to see the elf's eyes glittering beneath his helmet. "It ain't gonna be pretty when the darkspawn realise that the army's not holding them back from the bannorn anymore."

"Maker," Carver breathed, his mind wandering back to Lothering, to his home. "You really think we're marching to Denerim?"

"Cailan left no heir," Paquis pointed out. "And Ferelden's never had a queen regent before, except Moira the Rebel Queen, and she got her head cut off before she ever got near Denerim. A Blight's not a prime time to set that kind of precedent." He shook his head. "No, you're going to the capitol, probably to secure a regency. It might get...interesting."

The warrior had known that his friend was smart, but he was ashamed that the elf had worked out so much before Carver himself had even recovered from the shock of the massive defeat they were all running madly away from. His chest felt hollow as he imagined that awful horde gathering its strength and driving up the Imperial Highway, straight to Lothering and the patchwork of freeholds beyond. "Would they do that? Let half the fucking country burn?"

"In my experience," Paquis growled, "shemlen will do anything for a glimmer of power. I wouldn't put it past Teyrn Loghain."

"Then I'm coming with you," Carver vowed, in a rushed exhalation. "Or, rather, you're coming with me. To Lothering," he clarified. "And then to West Hill and the Free Marches."

The silence which answered him took the warrior by surprise, but he let the rogue take his time. After what felt like half a kilometre of solid stomping, Paquis finally yielded a reply. "You're not half bad, Hawkeye," he allowed. "For a shem."

"I won't tell my sisters that you said so," Carver vowed, smirking into his helmet. "Tell me when you're ready."

A nod sufficed, and the pair spent the remainder of the night in a deep silence, amongst the plodding cadence of boots hitting stone or the buzzing whispers of half a hundred murmured conversations. As the Northeastern sky's rim grew to lavender, the horse-mounted sergeants and commissioners called for a few hours' rest. Slowly, the rabble ground to a stop, and people were encouraged to drop where they stood along the road. Requests for rations were either ignored or rebuffed, so despite his burning throat and growling stomach, Carver decided not to draw attention to himself; luckily Paquis had had the foresight to slowly guide them to the edge of the raised road well before the order to halt. Nerves kept the warrior from sleeping, though he closed his eyes for what felt like half an Age before he felt a feather-light brush against his cheek.

"Ready, Hawkeye?" The rogue's voice was barely discernable above the crickets, but Carver nodded, his heart in his throat. "Loosen your straps and get ready to run." The elf shuffled closer to the edge, and Carver heard him complain about his bowels to what must have been a sentry; the warrior kept his eyes firmly lidded, even as his fingers sought the joints in his splintmail-the protection it afforded was not worth its weight.

A minute later, Carver stirred, leaving his helm and gauntlets behind. "Need a piss," he grunted at the sour-faced guard who stood watch over their sector of the Highway.

"Don't letcher back out o' me sight," the older man barked, still glancing after the path Paquis had taken. "Or I'll call the dogs on ye."

Carver gave a single-fisted salute and slipped off the edge of the raised road, shuffling over to a clutch of nettles. He spotted Paquis' bare head through the boughs of a tree, and a sudden calm settled over him; as though he owned the forest, Carver simply strolled past the bush and into the treeline, a smirk crawling over his lips. Paquis was on him an instant later, sliding a dagger between the loosened straps in the warrior's breastplate and grieves, and the weighty metal fell to the ground just as the shouts came up behind them.

And so they ran, with only their weapons, boots, and underclothes. Though Paquis had misled Carver about his origins, the elf glided through the forest as fleetly as the warrior. The hew and cry grew more distant as the pair struck out from the Highway, but it was not long before they discovered that King Cailan hadn't taken all of the army's hounds down in his ignominious defeat. A pair of mabaris soon announced their chase with a chorus of barks, and Carver called his companion to a halt in a small clearing. "We'll never outrun them," the warrior panted, readying his greatblade.

Paquis gritted his teeth, his long ears twitching as the baying grew ever nearer. For his part, Carver remembered the mabari pup he'd gotten his younger sister a year after their father's death. Well, he'd stolen it, really. Still, it had imprinted on Bethany within moments of opening its eyes, and could hardly stand to be parted with her.

In that small clearing, Carver tried to clear his mind of such thoughts as he and Paquis faced down the attack dogs. The underbrush rustled to either side of the warrior and the rogue, and suddenly the canines were upon them, teeth bared and eyes glinting. They were both painted with black and red ash, denoting them as companion hounds of the Ash Warriors, and thus even more fearsome than run-of-the-mill war dogs. Carver's attention focused on the dog nearest to him, a great death-dealing hulk of muscle, claws, and teeth. Time seemed to slow for the warrior as he brought his fluted greatblade to bear. The four-legged bastard was _fast_, though; it dodged Carver's first swing and lunged right for his throat, and the warrior didn't have time to raise his sword again before the dog was on him. He threw up his left forearm at the last second, hissing when the mabari's teeth found purchase on the flesh of his limb.

The dog's momentum carried it forward into Carver's chest, knocking him back off of his feet-his sword clattered to the ground as he fell, and the warrior closed his eyes against the pain in his arm and the shame of falling so easily. Just when he expected the mabari to wrench his arm off, however, a high-pitched whine sounded above him and the hound collapsed. When Carver opened his eyes, he saw Paquis tugging one of his daggers from the beast's throat. With a grunt, the warrior tipped the mabari off of him. "Thank you," he heaved, but the elf was already tearing at his own shirt.

"Here," Paquis huffed, throwing Carver a long strip of cloth. He wrapped the rest of the fabric around his middle, nursing a deep scratch in his flank. Grunting once more, Carver wrapped the rag around his bitten limb. "You were lucky," the elf went on. "Just a flesh wound."

Carver worried at the cloth, finally managing to tie a knot with one hand. Blood soaked through the bandage already, but it wasn't nearly heavy enough to worry him. "I'm...sorry, Paq," he said, tentatively. "I should've fought better than that."

Paquis waved his concern off. "Let's go, Hawkeye," he gruffed, turning to forge into the thick of the woods again. As Carver moved to follow, the elf glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "You can return the favour next time!"

Carver nodded, silently praying that there wouldn't _be_ a next time. Surely the army was far too disorganised to mount an effective search for a pair of deserters. Nevertheless, the pair continued their flight. They ran through the morning and the heat of the day, pushing themselves beyond their thirst and hunger, driven by fear of further pursuit. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Carver by sunset, and he came to a halt just as dusk fell around them. "Do you think we've lost them?"

"Doubt it," Paquis snarled, nursing the wound in his side from the fight. "But we need to rest," he pointed out, "or they'll catch us when we faint." The elf nodded to a large oak tree, whose boughs fanned out just out of reach of a mabari's jump. "That should serve us, at least for a few hours."

"You first," Carver remarked, when they reached the tree's trunk. "I'll hand up my sword and follow." Wordlessly, he offered his hands with fingers laced. He knew that Paquis would've disdained the help if there'd been anyone else with them, but he was glad when the elf stepped onto the proffered foothold and let Carver boost him up to the nest of limbs. The warrior's way up was a bit more difficult, but a lifetime in the half-tamed bannorn had taught Carver all he'd needed to learn about climbing trees.

Evening passed into full dark without another word passing between the deserters. Carver's thirst and hunger made him more alert, so he kept watch for a couple of hours while Paquis napped fitfully. When the warrior's eyelids began drooping, he jostled the rogue awake and claimed a little over two hours' rest himself, before the baying of another hound tore him from sleep. "Could be a coincidence," the elf remarked. "A poacher, maybe...or a wild dog," he suggested, sounding dubious.

Carver stifled a yawn, flexing his left hand; the sting of his wound helped to clear his mind from the all-too-brief sleep he'd managed to snatch. "Do you really want to risk it, Paq?"

The rogue's eyes glowed in the moonlight. "How far's home, Hawkeye?" Another bark sounded in the distance, and those backlit orbs narrowed to slits.

"Not sure," Carver replied, closing his eyes to picture the route back to Lothering. "We've been heading Northeast for a day, and Lothering was Northwest of where we ran off from, I think." He tried swallowing, but his tongue felt like sand. "We should be able to make the Drakon River before sunrise if we push on, though."

Paquis nodded, his ears twitching. "We'd better get to it, then." He slid down the treetrunk as silently as a spirit, and took the hilt of Carver's greatblade before the warrior himself scrambled off of his perch.

Not far away, they stumbled over a small stream in the forest, which let the parched men slake their thirst for the first time in a whole day. Thus revivified, the pair made good time Northward in the darkness. Nothing more ominous than crickets sounded for a few hours as they tracked through rough country, and the lull allowed Carver to hope that they'd been written off. Just when he was about to remark upon their good fortune, however, a howl sounded from far behind them. The warrior's heart sank, and he hardly needed Paquis' scream of "Run!"

Carver put his boots to the test, breaking through thick underbrush which tore at his trousers and left gouges in his arms. Somehow he kept hold of his sword and avoided tripping, even as the trees grew thicker around him and the ground sloped gently downward. Adrenaline kept his legs working and instinct guided his feet, though he could hear cursing from not too far behind him. The treeline broke suddenly, and Carver very nearly ran into Paquis, who'd stopped short just a couple of paces beyond. A hundred metres in front of them, the Drakon River swept placidly by; a hundred metres past that, though he couldn't see it, Carver knew that the West Road of the Imperial Highway rose up from the ground. Unfortunately for the deserters, an armoured man with a crossbow stood not fifty metres away, blocking their exit.

"Where d'you boys think you're goin', now?" Even in the purple pre-dawn, Carver could see the end of a bolt glinting as the man leveled his crossbow at them. "And in all this hurry, too." He shook his head, almost sympathetically.

"Fuck off, shem," Paquis shot back. "Get out of our way, and we'll let you live." Carver's stomach knotted; killing darkspawn was one thing, but he didn't know if he could bring himself to slay a fellow soldier, especially for doing his duty.

The man clucked his tongue. "Now, now, knife-ear. Is that any way to greet the man what's come to take you home?"

The elf growled, moving more quickly than Carver would have thought possible, given their ordeal. Paquis lurched into a forward roll, drawing his daggers as he went. "Get the dog!" He yelled, and before Carver could consciously process the command, he was turning away from his friend, toward the mabari who'd finally caught up with them.

New life poured into the warrior's muscles, borne of fear and sheer desperation. This dog was a bit smaller and less ferocious than the Ash Warrior hounds, but it was formidable, nonetheless. Carver had learnt his lesson well, however, and he kept his blade raised until the mabari leapt. With a scream of his own to match the canine's bark, Carver cleaved into the beast's shoulder, and felt a shower of hot blood spray across his face. He didn't have time to exult in his victory, though; just a moment later, another soldier emerged from the trees, unshouldering a waraxe.

"Gonna gut you, sodding coward," the man spat, and Carver realised that this was the source of the curses he'd heard before. "Just like Minch over there's guttin' your knife-eared bitch."

Carver's jaw set; he could hear blades ringing and grunts sounding behind him, but he dare not turn to see how his friend fared. "Yeah," he grunted with laboured breath, raising his bloodied sword again. "Go ahead and gut me then, ugly."

His assailant grimaced, hefting the axe. "That's what your mam's gonna say, you prick," he taunted. "Just before I split her open."

A sudden rage burnt white in Carver's nerves, but rather than take the bait, he forced himself to sneer. "I'm ready and waiting," he spat. "Let's see what you've got." His heart thudded in his ears, nearly as loudly as a sharp cry which sounded from behind him, but still the warrior kept his eyes on the axe-wielding man. Carver wasn't disappointed; with a bellow, the man swung, putting all of his might into a downstroke. Carver danced sideways and lashed out, but his greatblade slid across the bastard's scalemail with bruising force, rather than cutting. Carver had to cede ground when his assailant bulled forward and brought the waraxe up for another swing. A parry barely deflected the strike, and Carver stepped back again, trying to catch his breath.

"What's the matter, weakling?" The axe-wielder barked a laugh when Carver rolled sideways. "Tryin' to tire me out so's I can't fuck your old bitch of a mother to death?"

Flashes of his mother and sisters crossed Carver's mind, images of them slaughtered by darkspawn or by Loghain's men. Instead of anger, however, a cold certainty settled over him. He knew what he had to do. "No," he called back, through gritted teeth. "I'm gonna put you down." Before the soldier could muster a reply, Carver rushed him, sidestepping the axe's shaft and spinning in a near-full circle. His greatblade skipped off of the man's shoulder, seeking the joint of his helm, and another fount of blood sprayed the young warrior as the edge struck home. The soldier fell with a gurgled cry of surprise, nearly yanking Carver's sword from his grip, but the deserter levered his greatblade from the dying man's throat.

Carver felt his stomach clench when he recovered his senses enough to taste the man's blood on his lips. He spat as much as his parched mouth could allow, but his legs felt weak as the enormity of his circumstance sunk in; not only had Carver run from the army, but he'd now killed the man sent to fetch him back. "Oh, Maker," he breathed, wiping the gore from his face as best he could. A low-pitched groan from behind drew the warrior's attention, and when he turned, his knees nearly buckled. "Paq!"

The elf knelt beside his own opponent; a crossbow bolt stuck out from the right side of his chest, but the crossbow-wielding soldier had several dagger-holes in his throat and sides. "How's it feel, Hawkeye?" The rogue's voice bubbled with the blood in his lung.

"Let's get you across the river," Carver said, panic edging into his tone. "Then we can talk about...whatever you want."

"Doubt it," Paquis countered, with a wet cough. "I'd just...slow you down."

"Paq..." Carver swallowed, grimacing at the rusted-iron taste of blood still on his tongue. "It's my fault they came so hard," he pointed out. "If I hadn't followed you, you could've gotten enough of a head start to slip away."

The rogue gave a one-armed shrug. "Maybe," he considered. "But I ain't..." He coughed again, wiping a smear of his own blood from his chin. "Ain't got no sisters waiting for me to save 'em," he insisted. With a grunt, the elf brought himself to his feet. "Together, we're both dead," Paquis asserted. "If I can hold the next bastards off, there's a chance you'll make it."

The warrior wanted to shake his head, but instead he held out his hand. "You've been the only real friend I've had," Carver admitted, clasping Paquis' forearm gingerly. "For a long time."

Paquis inclined his head. "Go, then," he said. "And don't say I never did you any favours." When Carver hesitated, the elf cracked a smirk. "It's been nice knowin' you, kid. Name one of your children after me." His breaths were more laboured, now, and the rogue's eyes glinted oddly.

Carver swallowed once more and brushed past his friend. He didn't trust himself to look back as he waded into the lazy, frigid current of the river. The water came up to his armpits, and he had to hold his fluted sword above his head to keep it from getting drenched. The warrior's left arm throbbed as he held it above his head, but he paid the sensation no mind, too distracted by the chill of the water and the fatigue of his flight. He crossed the West Road in the pink light of dawn and kept walking. He dared not stop even in the heat of the day, when he felt the first shivers of fever; instead, Carver redoubled his pace through the rough country, not even pausing to drink. Near dusk, the warrior found himself in familiar country, and it took him a scant hour to stumble his way back to the modest homestead his father had built.

Bethany's mabari barked excitedly and bounded toward the man, but in Carver's near-delirium, he mistook the dog for another hunter from the army. Hunger, pain, and exhaustion stole the force from Carver's pre-emptive assault, however. His legs finally gave out after a single swing of his sword, and he watched, enthralled, as the stars above him slowly faded into nothing at all.

* * *

Author's note: As always, credit goes to my wonderful beta-reader, clafount. If the reader enjoys this work, they should check her excellent stories out!


	3. Uneven Ground

Author's note: As always, clafount deserves a ton of credit for being an excellent beta-reader!

* * *

When her hound's ears pricked up, Bethany looked up from the old codex she'd inherited from her father. "What is it, Barcus?" She'd fallen in love with the dog the moment her brother had given him to her, two years previously, when they were both still so devastated by the loss of their father. The pup's name had been a jest, playing upon the appellation of their maternal grandfather, Marcus Amell. Ever since Barcus had imprinted on the girl, they'd been nigh inseparable; before he'd run off South to Ostagar, Carver would often tease her that she could tell what the dog was thinking even three rooms away. Now more than ever, the jest seemed apt. The mage could positively _feel_ the anxiety rolling off of her hound, and he threw her a look that sent a chill running up her spine. "Is someone coming?"

In answer, the canine bolted to the door and scratched at it, clearly distressed. He did not bark, however, which kept Bethany and her mother from succumbing to terror. Gathering her nerves, the mage put down her book and crossed the room, unlatching the door. Before she could open it properly, Barcus bulled past the wooden barrier and ran out into the yard. Then he barked, once; not a note of warning, but of surprise and joy and not a little bit of concern. Frowning, Bethany concentrated her mana as best she could without her stave, and she stepped onto the moonlit grass just in time to see the flash of a sword and a figure collapsing to the ground. When Barcus planted himself firmly beside the man and looked back at her, a whine cutting across the distance, Bethany felt her heart hitch a half-beat faster. Ignoring her mother's query, the mage closed the distance to her hound; when she caught sight of the supine man, she felt her breath flee her lungs as though she'd been struck, and when she heard the fever burning in his voice, Bethany's legs folded beneath her, and she found herself stroking her brother's sweating face. He babbled, bright blue eyes unseeing, and Bethany felt at once relieved and terribly afraid.

Heavy footfalls behind her signalled the presence of her elder sister, Cethlenn. "What's going on here? Who is that?"

The younger mage glanced over her shoulder, and saw that Cethlenn wielded their father's powerful staff, carved with his own hands and imbued with years of dedicated spellwork. "It's...Carver," Bethany breathed, shifting back so that Cethlenn could better see. "He has a fever, I think," she added, numbly.

"Andraste's knickers, girl," the eldest Hawke sibling exclaimed. "Let's get him inside!"

Her sister's words spurred Bethany from her shock, and she moved to Carver's far side. "Help me," she pleaded, grasping her brother's left arm. "I don't think I can pick him up."

"Paq...got to...find..." Carver's voice was alarmingly weak. "Go...back," he grunted, and he pulled at Bethany's grip with surprising strength.

"We'll find your pack later," Bethany promised, brushing his slick hair back from his forehead. Cethlenn took his right arm, and together they managed to get the near-delirious warrior onto his feet. His weight would have been too much for Bethany on her own, but with her sister's help, she managed to bring Carver into the house. He came willingly enough, despite his ramblings.

Their mother waited for them in the main room, a cleaver held warily by her side. When she caught sight of her son, however, the blade clattered to the floor as she rushed across the room. "Oh, my boy!" Her arms seemed thrice their normal length, and Bethany found herself half-crushed by one of them as the older woman enveloped all three of her children in a fierce hug.

The contact and warmth of the room seemed to bring Carver back to his senses, at least a bit. "Mother..." Bethany couldn't see his grimace, but she heard it in his tone. "I..." And then he slumped, nearly dragging his sisters to the floor.

"We've got to lie him down," Cethlenn insisted, taking charge yet again, as had become her custom these past three years. The eldest Hawke sibling had perhaps been affected most of all by their father's sudden death, but Bethany could never tell whether she took her father's mantle out of duty or desire.

"Maker's breath," Leandra sighed, when they'd hobbled into the siblings' crowded bunkroom. "I'll get him some water."

Carver murmured again as they laid him down, but before Bethany could counsel him to try and sleep, she saw his eyes clear. "My sword," he insisted, looking from her to Cethlenn. "Bring it...please."

Cethlenn hesitated for a heartbeat, but then nodded, and left them without a further word. Suddenly alone with her twin brother, Bethany's brows knitted, and she set to work probing Carver with her magic. He was too ill and exhausted to object, as he'd so often done when Bethany tried to put her lessons with her father into practice. Malcolm Hawke had done his best to mentor both of his magical daughters, despite the great disparity in all of their affinities; Malcolm himself was a master at telekinesis and electricity, while Cethlenn excelled at manipulating arcane energy, and Bethany could summon fire for as long as she could remember. Both of the Hawke sisters had undertaken studies in healing, however, as that was the art most likely to earn a stranger's gratitude in a pinch. Bethany felt grateful for those efforts now, as her mana coursed through Carver's flesh. Through the connection, she felt Carver's fever burning in her own veins, his thirst clawing at the inside of her throat, and his stomach so empty that it was nearly at the point of devouring itself. She drew back with a gasp, sinking down into her own narrow bed, just as her mother returned.

Leandra carried a pitcher of water and a clay cup, already filled to the brim. "Drink now, son," she whispered, holding the cup to Carver's lips. Instinct drove him to pull greedily at the liquid, and Bethany watched him consume three cupfuls with hardly a breath between each. The elder woman cast Bethany a sobering glance. "Can you heal him, darling?"

The mage gathered her long curls into a tail. "I will try, Mother," she vowed, gathering her magic about her once more. "You should try to sleep, Carver," she told her brother, placing one hand at the wrist of his wounded arm and the other at his shoulder. He hissed and jerked when Bethany's mana suffused the bitten flesh, but her grip held fast, and the mage did not stop until the warrior's arm was whole again. Her gaze met his eyes, brilliant blue and still shining with fever, and her breath caught. "Rest," she said at last, rising from his side. "I'll brew up a potion." He only nodded, and as Bethany left him with their mother, she breathed a silent prayer that the fever hadn't stolen the man's wits.

The house was not large, and the main room functioned for cooking, cleaning, eating, and relaxing. Bethany found Cethlenn sitting on the bench by the books, running a damp cloth over an enormous sword. The cloth had been off-white, but now it was stained a deep, rusted brown. Bethany shivered and moved to the cooking alcove, gathering a small cauldron and some elfroot and other herbs. A large pitcher held just enough water to brew a restorative tea, and the young mage set to work, bringing the stove to life with a brush of her mana.

"How is he?" The question was far more tentative than Bethany had come to expect from her sister, but she found herself grateful.

"He's not raving," she told the cauldron, her own voice low. "But the fever's set in, and he's not eaten in days."

"We'll have to move him, then," Cethlenn observed. "It appears we're all fugitives, now."

Bethany's throat thickened around a sob that would not come. "We're...going to have to run again, aren't we?" The Hawkes had called Lothering their home for twelve years, since she and Carver were six years old, and the farm they tended was as much of a home as the twins had ever known.

A sigh sounded behind her. "We will," Cethlenn confirmed, and Bethany heard the heavy sword settle on the floor. "Even if nobody comes snooping around for him, he must've run away for a reason," the elder sibling intoned, ominously. "Either he lost his nerve, or..."

"Or we've lost the war," Bethany finished, a new terror thrilling through her nerves. She swallowed hard, concentrating her mana in the simmering water to mix the potion's ingredients more quickly. "Maker preserve us," she lamented, sharing a long look with her sister as she poured the steeping solution into the pitcher.

Carver was already half-asleep, muttering about his pack once more, but too weak to rouse himself. Their mother helped Bethany serve him up a measure of the tea, and when he'd imbibed the cupful, he settled back onto the bed more easily. "I'll sit with him," Bethany offered.

"Thank you, darling," Leandra sighed, still looking worried. "I could hardly get a coherent word from him, but I expect he'll be hungry when he wakes."

_If he wakes_, Bethany thought, treacherously. Still, she nodded. "I'll wake him in half an hour to finish the potion, and that should take him into tomorrow...but he does need to eat, to get some strength back."

The older woman nodded. "I'll fix some porridge that'll stand the night," she pronounced, and disappeared.

Bethany settled down on her bed, watching her brother's chest rise and fall. She took comfort in the fact that his breaths came easily; she'd sensed nothing amiss in his lungs, so he was unlikely to become pneumonic. A weight shifted beside her, and the mage laid her hand on Barcus' strong neck without turning her attention from Carver. "_Here lies the abyss_, _the well of all souls_," Bethany breathed to herself. "_From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you_." Her eyes closed as she intoned the eleventh verse of the fourteenth strophe of the Canticle of Andraste. "_In my arms lies Eternity_." The Prophet's words echoed through the ages, helping to still the fears which threatened to overwhelm her.

At the appointed time, Bethany woke Carver with a subtle brush of her mana, wary of the warrior lashing out. He stirred, fitfully, before opening his eyes, so different from her own amber-coloured orbs. "...Beth?" He looked around the dim room, blinking. "How did I get here?"

She felt like reflecting the question back at him, but instead, the mage poured him the second draught of the potion she'd brewed. "That doesn't matter now, Carver," she allowed, warming the liquid again with a touch of her magic. "Take this, and try to sleep the night through. We'll talk about it tomorrow, when you're feeling better." Bethany helped him down the herbal infusion, whispering more encouragement for him to rest. When he'd downed the lot, Carver fell back into a semblance of sleep, and Bethany returned to watching him for what felt like another hour before the excitement of the evening-along with the labours of the day-caught up with her.

Shooing Barcus off of her pallet, Bethany settled down for an uneven night. Carver cried out on occasion, and once the mage woke up enough to see their mother worrying at his side, stroking a cool cloth over his forehead.

The next morning made her more hopeful, however; her brother was still a touch feverish, and weak with hunger, but a couple of days' rest would see him back on his feet. With a couple of proper meals, Carver became lucid enough to agree with Cethlenn's assessment that he'd need to hide, at least until he'd recovered fully. Cethlenn reported that the last of Bann Ceorlic's levies had left Lothering to the templars' devices, which would make it nearly impossible for anyone but their mother to get any supplies they might need...and there were already rumours of a pressgang forming to round up able-bodied men. Thus Carver took up residence in the hidden cellar of their modest barn, where Bethany and Cethlenn had often taken refuge whenever they'd had cause to suspect uninvited guests.

The fourth morning of Carver's convalescence, the family's precaution proved apt, for Barcus alerted the magical sisters to an unfamiliar presence on their property. Cethlenn took the lead, but Bethany followed close behind, gripping her own knotwood stave, her mabari a hand's breadth from her hip. Three strangers stood a dozen paces from the Hawkes' front door.

"Leave," Cethlenn commanded, planting her finely-carved staff firmly beside her. The lower foot of the shaft was sheathed in steel, while the top bore an intricate carving of an angelic figure which their father had claimed to be Andraste...yet Bethany suspected that the man's inspiration struck closer to home, for she couldn't help thinking of her mother, whenever she inspected the idol. In any case, the staff was hardly passable as a walking stick, though the eldest of Malcolm Hawke's children did not seem disposed to hide at present; even the templars had quit the village, carting off as many refugees as they could take with them. "You are not welcome here," she insisted.

The middle man, shorter than the rest but unquestionably the one in charge, stepped forward. His eyes were distant, and his receding hairline gave him a wolfish look, but he spoke in a neutral tone. "We're just on the teyrn's business, lass," he said, holding his palms face-up in a gesture of peace. "You mayn't have heard, but them Grey Wardens've turned their cloaks on good King Cailan and left him for dead, along with half his army. We'll be needin' more men to put under arms, is all."

Bethany's eyes narrowed; from what little Carver had spoken of his reasons for deserting, she'd gotten the distinct impression that this man's tale was unlikely. "There haven't been any men in this house since Father died," she replied, before her sister could antagonize the man or his companions. She noticed the leader's eyes flicker down to her dog and felt her heart sink.

"Fine hound," the man remarked, casually. "Lost a great many like him at Ostagar." The beast's low growl had him chuckling, oddly enough, and those dull eyes rose up to Cethlenn once more. "Don't suppose you'd be willing to release him to us?" It was well-known in Ferelden that once a mabari was imprinted on a human, it would obey no one else while that human still lived and wished to maintain the connection.

Cethlenn gave her sibling a sidelong glance. "He's your mutt, Beth," she pointed out. "What say you?"

The younger mage could not hide her distaste. "No, sers," she allowed, gripping her stave with her right hand and lifting her left into the air. A ball of flame took shape in the bowl made by her fingers, which caused the intruders to gasp and step back. "And I would suggest that you take my sister's advice. Leave this place."

The leader of the band-of-three looked at the siblings in a new light, and Bethany was ashamed at herself for the sudden fear behind his once-lifeless eyes. He stepped backward, his hands much closer to his weapons. "We were just goin'," he said evenly, and jerked his head at his companions.

Bethany and Cethlenn watched until the strangers had disappeared, before the elder sister breathed a sigh. "Maker's breath, Bethany," the woman half-scolded, but when the younger mage looked up, she caught the pride in her sister's expression.

"No one threatens my dog," Bethany claimed, defensively. _Or my brother_, a small voice added in the back of her mind, but she had the good sense not to air the thought aloud. "Do you think they'll be back?"

Cethlenn's face fell into shadow. "Possibly," she conceded. "Let's get back inside."

With a nod, Bethany followed her sister into the house, where their mother was still at work making enough foodstuffs for their journey North. Carver had apprised them of the army's retreat and the need to get as far away from the darkspawn as possible, and gathering supplies enough for the trip to the port town of West Hill had taken much of their time. Leandra paused in her labours to throw a concerned glance to her children. "What was that?"

"Trouble," Cethlenn announced. "Are we ready?"

"No," Leandra lamented. "But...we haven't much choice, I fear. The very earth is dying beneath our feet."

It was true; they'd all noticed the yellowing grass the day before, and now the bank of dark clouds which had plagued the Southern horizon for so long was spreading their way. If the family didn't move soon, it might well be too late to outrun what was coming for them. "We'll have to make do with what we've got," Bethany suggested.

Her mother nodded. "Go make sure your brother's feeling up for it," she advised. "Your sister and I will do what we can, and meet you by the barn."

Bethany acquiesced readily, a different sort of numbness settling over her as she emerged into the weak light of late morning once again, through the house's back door. The sight of the unharvested vegetables and the bleating of the goats that they would have to abandon were almost enough to penetrate her inner fog, but Bethany did not linger in the yard for more than a moment. Instead, she sought the cellar where Carver had taken up residence for nearly a week.

Her brother did not sit idle in the dim room; as soon as he'd felt strong enough, he fell to the drills he'd learnt in the army. At the moment, he was pushing himself up from the ground and lowering himself back down again. When Bethany paused at the bottom of the steps, she counted five such motions before he ceased and climbed to his feet. "It's time to go," she ventured, her brows knitting. "Do you think you're up for it?"

Carver took a long breath and inclined his head. "We should've left before now," he said. "I'm sorry I've held us back, Beth."

The mage shrugged, glancing back up the stairs. She couldn't hear the others quite yet. "We wouldn't've known to run if not for you," Bethany pointed out. A curious thought struck her, and she turned back to Carver. "What was in your pack that you wanted to go back for?"

The warrior paused partway through the process of donning the sleeveless, padded shirt he'd worn on the night of his arrival. "...My pack?" His brow arched for a moment, before his features smoothed, a shadow falling over his face. "Not 'pack'," he corrected, his voice barely above a whisper. "'Paq', short for 'Paquis'. He was an elf I met in the army." Carver turned away, fastening the buckles on his shirt in a silence which spoke volumes.

Bethany busied herself with checking the flask and dagger she kept at the small of her back, unwilling to press the subject further. When she was certain that the blade was sharp and the flask filled to the brim with lyrium, the mage replaced them and hefted her stave. "We should wait for Mother and Ceth upstairs," she said at last, just as Carver retrieved that enormous blade he'd brought with him from Ostagar.

The warrior nodded, and followed Bethany up the steps and into the barn where they kept the goats' feed, and the animals themselves in foul weather. The siblings were not long in waiting, for the two older Hawkes arrived at the building's gate only a few moments after the twins emerged from the cellar. Leandra and Cethlenn both carried two packs each, and another was strapped securely to Barcus' back.

"One of you will have to double up," Carver allowed, breaking his sullen silence. "This is enough weight for me," he added, lifting the point of his greatblade.

Bethany saw her sister nod. "Take Mother's extra, Beth," Cethlenn instructed.

Leandra spoke up. "Will we really see them, do you think?"

"I pray not," Carver replied. "But I don't want to take any chances."

"Then you should take your sister's extra burden, Bethany," Leandra insisted. "If it comes to that, all three of you may need to fight."

Bethany saw her sister hesitate, but then she nodded. "Very well," the elder mage acceded, handing Bethany one of the packs. "Now, we really should go."

No one had any arguments. The four humans and their mabari struck out Northward, away from the nearly abandoned village that had served as their home. Soon enough, though, Bethany's veil of numbness was punctured by a stab of foreboding, for every step North seemed to drain more of the colour from the ground and sky around them. Dead grass was already bleached a sickly yellow, and the few trees near their path had lost the leaves which normally graced them so lushly in the summer months. The young mage was just about to voice her uncertainty in their course when Barcus let out a snarl and Carver stopped short. And then she saw the monster, scrambling over the bare countryside from the East. From a distance it looked something like a man, though after a heartbeat, Bethany saw its face resolve into a pale death's head with milky eyes and a rictus grin. There was nothing in its expression but hunger, and it led three of its fellows, closing in on them alarmingly quickly.

"There's a gully up ahead," Carver observed as he vaulted himself up the bank. "I'll meet you there. Run!" Bethany's heart stopped for the space of a breath as she watched him charge, alone, straight for the squad of tainted beasts.

Cethlenn jostled her sister with the end of her staff. "You heard him!" Then she took off, half-dragging their mother, and leaving Bethany torn. After a moment, Barcus _whoofed_ at her, and she took off after her sister down the twisting path. The banks around them deepened and shadows played in the recesses of rock, owing to the black bands of clouds which streaked the sky.

It was here that Bethany halted, sounds of clashing metal and grunting sounding in the distance. "We should wait for Carver," she insisted, her voice fraught with worry.

Cethlenn threw her a glare. "If we linger, we may die," she pointed out.

Bethany thought to argue, but an alarmed bark drew her attention, and she turned in time to see a pair of those human-like monsters rushing up the path that her family had just taken. Barcus growled, and a sudden anger welled up within the young mage; without conscious thought, she gathered a hefty ball of flame about her fist and flung it at the assailants. When it hit the first one, Bethany fed the fire more of her mana, and it exploded to fill the gap in the rocks with flame. Shocked, Bethany looked from her outstretched hand to the pair of burning darkspawn that her spell had killed. Excitement tinged the fear and rage brought about by circumstance...it was the first time that Bethany had used her magic so openly, and to such great effect.

Already, however, another knot of three beasts gathered behind the licking flames, looking positively murderous. The sight of the monsters, coupled with the sensation of Cethlenn's mana discharging behind her, threatened to drive Bethany to despair. "A little help?" Called the eldest of Leandra's children, in between firing bolts of spirit energy.

Bethany turned to see that her sister was dangerously close to a pair of tall darkspawn, alternatively striking out and then blasting with her staff to keep them at bay. Their mother cowered in an alcove by a boulder, praying and weeping openly. The younger mage channeled her mana through her own stave, sending globs of fire at one of the darkspawn confronting Cethlenn-each strike was much weaker than the one she'd hurled a few moments before, but she could sustain a fairly rapid salvo, and in a few heartbeats she'd drawn the monster's attention. By the time it reached her, the fiend had been so weakened by her and her sister's assault that it only took a couple of solid _thwacks_ with her stave to see it fall.

At the height of her victory, a grotesque cry sounded from behind Bethany, and she realized an instant too late that the wall of fire behind her had flickered and faded to nothing. She twisted and lunged backward, only just managing to avoid the swipe of a blackened sword. A scream tore through her lungs as she fell, and she threw up her arms, her heart racing away in her chest.

A shadow crossed over her as the nearest darkspawn drew nearer, yet just before it renewed its attack, Bethany saw an enormous steel blade sprout from its right shoulder. In half a heartbeat, the sword had cleaved the monster in two, and a geyser of black ichor fountained over Bethany's legs even as she scrambled backward. Fueled by adrenaline, she managed to regain her feet, only to see her brother dispatch the remaining two fiends with similar efficiency. When he turned to look upon her, the mage saw the same distance in his expression that she'd spied in the leader of the band that had prompted their flight. Carver blinked, though, and it was gone. "Are you alright, Beth?"

She swallowed and nodded, after a moment. "You?" His arms and chest were covered in black streaks.

The warrior shrugged. "Been better, but I've been worse, too." He looked back over his shoulder. "There's smoke rising up from the village," he pointed out, "so we've got to keep moving.

Bethany led the way to Cethlenn and their mother. "Maker, we've lost it all," Leandra lamented. "Everything your father and I built." Of all of them, only she and Barcus were free of the corrupted blood. Bethany hoped that none of them would fall prey to it.

"The important thing is that we stick together," Cethlenn insisted, throwing Carver an angry look. "No more running off to be the hero."

When her brother looked to argue, Bethany broke in. "I agree," she insisted, trying to ignore the hurt in Carver's eyes. "And we should keep going...all the way to Kirkwall, Mother. We'll build a new life there." Neither she nor Cethlenn had been thrilled at the suggestion, knowing-as every apostate east of Val Royeaux knew-that the City of Chains boasted the nexus of templar power in Eastern Thedas. Yet their mother had been born there, and she claimed that they still had family and claim to an estate, which might mean they'd have coin and influence enough to keep the magical siblings at liberty.

"If we make it that far," Carver interjected, grimacing.

Bethany's eyebrows lowered. "Well, let's not stand around to remove all doubt." With that, she set off up the path, climbing a steep hill. Barcus stayed beside her, and the others were not long in following. Another clutch of darkspawn awaited them at the top, but the three siblings worked together to cut them down, with Carver trading blows while his sisters rained spells down upon the fiends. The fight soon spilled around a bend, and the Hawke siblings managed to rescue another pair of refugees who'd fared somewhat worse in their flight thus far.

As the fiends lay twitching around them and Bethany caught her breath, she noticed the silver gleam of the strange man's armour. He clutched his right arm with his left hand, so she couldn't quite see the pattern of his breastplate, but the woman accompanying him had taken up his shield, which bore an unmistakable flaming sword. "Well, the Maker has a sense of humour," she spat, glancing at the carnage around her. "The darkspawn, and now a _templar_."

That drew the man's attention, and she saw his eyes flitting from the stave in her hands to her face. "Apostate," he called with a sneer to rival her own. "Keep your distance." He moved to step forward, but both Cethlenn and Carver closed ranks in front of him. "The 'spawn are clear in their intent," he continued, over his companion's pleas. "But the mage is always unknown. The Order dictates..."

The orange-haired woman spoke up again. "Wesley..." When the man looked to argue further, she pressed on. "Dear, they saved us. The Maker understands."

All at once, the fight left the templar's expression, and he looked almost despondent. "Of course," he mumbled, glancing away.

"I'm Aveline Vallen," the woman said, curtly. "This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate one another when we're out of danger." Her eyes fell upon Cethlenn, who'd taken a half-step ahead of her brother.

The elder mage tilted her head. "I thought the templars had all abandoned Lothering," she wondered, and Bethany felt grateful that their names weren't forthcoming to the templar and his warrior of a wife.

"I was coming from Denerim, on business for the Order," Wesley explained. "By the time I heard news of the battle, I'd feared I was too late..."

Despite the flecks of black blood on her face, Aveline's gratitude shone through her smile. "I was a lieutenant in King Cailan's army," she added. "Only a dozen of us survived the slaughter."

Carver spoke up, sounding slightly panicked. "We should move on, if we want this half-dozen to survive."

Aveline hesitated for a heartbeat, but then sighed. "North is cut off," she admitted. "We barely escaped the main body of the horde. They're circling around from the East."

"And Lake Calenhad is to the West," Bethany breathed. "Which leaves us with one direction."

Her brother barked a laugh. "The Wilds are to the South," he pointed out. "That's no way out!"

Though she was still behind her sister, Bethany could positively _feel_ the older mage rolling her eyes. "If our options are South or die," she snarked, already sidestepping Aveline, "I'm choosing South."

With that, the newly-enlarged group came into some semblance of order, with Carver and Cethlenn taking point at the front after Aveline volunteered to act as rearguard. Bethany stayed close to her mother, who in turn kept company with the wounded templar; though she'd lived with three apostates for more than a dozen years, Leandra still had impeccable manners. The darkspawn swarmed them three more times, and Bethany couldn't shake the feeling that they were being herded, since during each skirmish, the party would come to a fork in the path...and there was always less resistance down the fork more likely to take them West, and then South.

Eventually, the trail they'd been forced to take lifted once more, and the refugees found themselves upon a plateau of sorts. The sun was preparing to set to the right of them, and it had been more than an hour since they'd seen any more darkspawn. Bethany was just about to suggest that they take a rest to gather their strength, when she felt the earth beneath her feet begin to tremble. Her heart sank when she saw that Aveline and Carver both readied their weapons at once, but the suspense didn't last overlong. With thundering footfalls, the most hideous beast Bethany had ever seen ascended one of the paths leading to the flat ground the party had claimed.

The monster was simply enormous, shaped similarly to the darkspawn they'd thus far encountered, except that it stood more than a dozen feet high, with pale-purple flesh and a pair of twisted horns. It seemed almost graceful as it leapt, closing the distance in a single jump. The ground shook violently when it landed, sending Carver, Leandra, and Wesley off of their feet. Bethany's grip faltered upon her stave when the beast's relatively tiny eyes fixed upon her mother, and the instinct to flee warred with the urge to protect her family. _Here lies the abyss_, she repeated silently to herself as she drew a deep breath to help gather her mana. "Maker," Bethany pleaded aloud, "give me strength."


	4. Dragon's Dance

"Cethlenn..." The older woman knelt over the mangled corpse of her daughter, growing more hysterical by the second. "Wake up, darling. The battle's over...we're fine!"

Aveline had to bite back a laugh. _Fine_ would hardly be the way she'd describe their condition; after the ogre's initial charge had scattered them, the short-haired apostate had lunged past her sister, right into the monster's grasp. Shortly after, they'd been nearly overwhelmed with a couple of waves of hurlocks, which made taking the big bastard down that much more difficult. But they'd done it in the end, Aveline and the boy, with help from the surviving apostate and her dog. With a grunt, Aveline shouldered her husband's shield and limped over to the grieving woman. "I'm sorry, Miss..." She trailed off for a moment, slightly annoyed that they'd not given their names. "Your daughter is gone."

The news broke over the woman like a squall, and the soldier had to glance away from her denials and recriminations.

"She gave her life to save us, Mother." The boy spoke, and Aveline couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she'd seen him before...but she couldn't place it. He fought well enough, but he hadn't been amongst the survivors from the battle, that lucky company who'd stood beside their king in the valley and yet still drew breath.

The boy's mother shot him a dagger-filled glare. "I don't want a hero," she hissed. "I want a _my daughter_. Your big sister, and my little girl..."

Wesley hobbled nearer, and the sympathy in his eyes nearly broke Aveline's heart, for she knew what becoming a templar had eventually cost him. "Allow me to commend her soul to the Maker, Mistress," he intoned. When the woman sat back, he balled his left fist into his breastplate. "Ashes we were," he recited, "and ashes we become. Maker, give this young woman a place at your side."

It wasn't elaborate, but it would serve...and it seemed to make the fact of the matter sink in more deeply for the woman. "I will never forget you," she vowed, stroking the dead girl's still face. "Oh, Cethlenn..."

"We should go," the sister said, her voice filled with a sob. "Ceth wouldn't want her sacrifice to be meaningless..."

"Our lives would mean more to her than our prayers," the boy concurred. As one, the two siblings stood, and Aveline shared a quick nod with the boy.

They didn't make it very far. "Flames," Aveline swore, drawing her shortsword and unshouldering her shield just as two large groups of darkspawn appeared at different entrances to the plateau. She grimaced, steeling herself. "We're too late," she hissed between her teeth, taking a single step forward.

Suddenly, a guttural scream pierced the air behind them, which caused the advancing darkspawn to pause in their tracks. A quick glance over her shoulder nearly stopped Aveline's heart, for on the rise behind them, a full-fledged dragon stood perched. _Of all the sodding..._

But when the creature spread its wings and swooped over them, its tongues of flame only splashed over the now-terrified hurlocks. It landed on the still-burning ground, trampling the few 'spawn who'd survived its initial assault. Snatching a final straggler up into its grip, the dragon began to glow; Aveline readied her shield, for now the monster's attention would inevitably turn to them. Her throat ran dry as the glowing figure quickly shrunk down and took the form of an ageless-looking woman with stark white hair and form-fitting armour. Aveline's eyes narrowed as the woman approached.

"Well, well," the stranger breathed. "What have we here?" Casually, she dropped the half-crushed hurlock. "It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds," she said offhandedly, and though Aveline knew they were too far North to truly be in the Korcari Wilds, the comment made the soldier suspicious about the identity of their apparent saviour. "Now," the woman continued, "it seems they arrive in hordes!"

The boy stepped forward, brandishing his bloodied sword. "Stay back," he warned. "I won't let you harm us." Part of Aveline admired his bravado, but the taunt was foolish and unnecessary, and she would have said so if Wesley hadn't chosen that moment to lose his footing.

The wild-haired woman threw back her head in a mad cackle. "If I wanted to kill you all, dear boy, I daresay you could not stop me." She considered them evenly. Then she abruptly turned and began to stroll away. "You should know that if you wish to flee the darkspawn, you are headed in the wrong direction."

"Wait." It was the girl who spoke up this time, a bit more tentatively than her brother. "You can't just leave us here." Aveline sensed more bravery in the girl than she'd suspected at first.

"Can I not?" The woman paused. "I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished," she pronounced, turning to regard the refugees. "Who could perform such a feat?" Aveline felt the woman's eyes sweeping over all of them, and she did not appear terribly impressed. "But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe," the stranger went on. "For the moment. Is that not enough?"

The girl moved to speak again, but her brother took another step forward. "We can get to Kirkwall on our own," he growled.

"Kirkwall?" Their saviour seemed honestly taken aback for just an instant. "My, but that is quite the voyage you plan. Your teyrn will not miss you, hmm?"

Aveline spied a shadow flickering across the boy's features, and in an instant she remembered seeing him-he'd wandered across her path back at Ostagar, as part of Loghain's column for the final battle...which meant that he had no earthly business being here. Her eyes narrowed as he blustered a response. "He certainly missed the king," the boy spat, "so I don't care whether or not he misses me."

"I see," the woman intoned. "And just how were you planning on getting to Kirkwall, child?"

His sister piped up again. "We were going to take ship," she breathed. "From West Hill."

The stranger considered, turning to look North for a few moments, and then Southeast. "Gwaren would be a better choice," she commented, neutrally.

"We're pinned in," the boy exclaimed. "The bloody darkspawn have us trapped! How are we supposed to get to Gwaren _or_ West Hill?"

The old woman fixed him with her stare for nearly a minute, until he settled down into an uncomfortable silence. "Hurtled into the chaos," she half-chanted, "you fight...and the world will shake before you." Then she broke off, again turning from them, seemingly to gather her thoughts. Aveline couldn't hear her mumble over a wet-sounding cough from Wesley, and the soldier's heart leapt into her throat when she noticed the black tendrils snaking up her husband's neck from beneath his skin. "It appears fortune smiles on us both today," their saviour called, more loudly. "I may be able to help you yet."

The unexpected offer seemed to break the boy's stubborn resistance. "I...suppose we can take any help we can get," he mused.

"Maybe we shouldn't trust her," the girl pointed out. "We don't even know what she is."

Aveline swallowed the lump in her throat, looking from her husband to the woman who now offered them their lives. "I know what she is," the soldier gruffed. "The Witch of the Wilds."

"Some call me that," she admitted. "Also 'Flemeth'; 'Asha'bellanar'; 'an old hag who talks too much'." A manic light gleamed in her strange eyes. "Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde, to Gwaren, in exchange for a simple delivery to someplace not far out of your way, once you cross the sea."

The boy appeared hopeful as he looked at Aveline. "Should we trust her?"

Another cough sent a chill down the soldier's spine. "Wesley's injured," she pointed out, unable to admit the truth of it out loud. "We'll never get past the horde on our own." As much as she didn't like the idea of owing her life to a witch, the chance for her and Wesley to live on drove her to swallow her concerns.

"If you need to," Wesley managed, "leave me behind."

Aveline had to blink to keep tears from welling up in her eyes. "No," she hissed. _Gallant fool_. "I said I'd drag you out of this place if I had to, and I meant it."

The boy looked to weigh his options for a few breaths. "We have to get to Kirkwall," he announced. "_Before_ we make this delivery."

"But you will do it," Flemeth replied, her tone nearly silken. "There is a clan of Dalish elves that will be camped in the mountains beyond the city," she informed him, stepping forward. "Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, _Marethari_," she said, pronouncing the name distinctly. "Do this thing, and any debt between us is paid in full." Aveline did not see the boy take up the proffered trinket, distracted by her husband. "There is another matter," Flemeth continued after a pregnant pause, and the soldier felt the witch's eyes boring into her back.

Anger flashed over Aveline's face, and she rose more quickly than she'd meant to, her hand halfway to the hilt of her sword. "You stay away from him," she growled.

Flemeth fixed her a look of genuine pity, which was a thousand times worse than the hints of madness which had thus far featured in the woman's gaze. "What has been done to your man," she breathed, "is within his blood already."

Aveline's eyes burned. "You lie!"

"She...she's right, Aveline," Wesley groaned from behind her. "I can feel the corruption in my veins." She could hear the agony beneath his tone. "So much blood...I _felt_ it, when it happened."

Now even the boy's eyes had softened. "There must be something we can do to help him."

"The only cure I know of," Flemeth offered, somewhat affably, "is to become a Grey Warden."

"And they all died at Ostagar," the boy growled, confirming Aveline's earlier suspicions that he must have been there...and _not_ in the valley, as she'd been.

"Not all," the witch countered, and Aveline noticed an odd hope cross Carver's features. "But the last are now beyond your reach," Flemeth concluded, shaking her head almost wearily.

Her husband called out to her once more. "Aveline...listen to me." She turned away from the witch and the boy, kneeling beside Wesley. His eyes were turning milky, but she could see the request in them.

"You can't ask me to do this," Aveline declared, closing her eyes against the tears which threatened again. "I won't."

Wesley drew a ragged breath. "Please," he begged. "The corruption is a slow death...I can't..."

Aveline shook her head, her cheeks burning as twin streaks of moisture coursed down them. Before she could muster a response, however, the boy spoke up. "I'm sorry, Aveline," he ventured. "If there were any other way..."

She couldn't nod, couldn't look him in the eye; instead, Aveline gave Wesley one last watery glance and turned away. She shuddered at the sound of a dagger sliding between the joints of her husband's armour, and swallowed a sob when the dying man actually breathed a word of thanks to his killer. A hand upon her shoulder sent a jolt through Aveline, but she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but look at the old woman whose fingers graced her frame.

"Without an end," Flemeth counseled, "there can be no peace." After a moment, Aveline managed to incline her head, and the witch turned away. "It gets no easier," she said, setting off at a saunter. "Your struggles have only just begun."

The witch led the party South in silence, and no more darkspawn harassed them as the sun disappeared behind the Frostbacks. Aveline kept her peace, even as memories of her life with Wesley kept pestering her-of their chance introduction in Dragon's Peak, when he was a crofter and she little more than a mercenary; of a deepening romance that was the work of years; of her commission as an officer, and his own decision to become a templar, and his regret that that decision had revealed his niece as an apostate and eventually estranged him from his family. Recollecting their small, seaside wedding in Amaranthine brought a bittersweet smile to the soldier's lips, but it faded when she realized that she'd never share the man's touch again. The immediate cause of that severance marched at the front of the column, so Aveline allowed herself to drift to the back again. A small voice warned her that the others would think her a coward, but she did not want to care what the boy thought of her. He'd taken her husband; he would not have her dignity.

An hour after sunset, Flemeth ushered them into a small cave. Aveline took up the rear, and she was surprised when the witch followed her in. With a flick of her hand, Flemeth caused a wall of rocks to build itself in the mouth of the cave, sealing them inside; just before the weak starlight was cut off, a campfire spontaneously sparked into life, stinging their eyes with the sudden contrast. Aveline's brow drew down as she took in the sight of four bedrolls already prepared on the cavern floor. "You knew," she accused the witch, giving her a cutting glance. "That we would lose two."

"I saw a possibility," the woman corrected. "Old Flemeth sees many things, child. Some of them even come to pass." She looked to the boy, who was already working up an accusation of his own. "You made our bargain of your own free will," she pronounced. "And believe me when I tell you that as powerful as I am, there is a limit to what I can do...as my Morrigan never ceases to remind me." The woman leaned against the wall she'd made, a bit rougher than the more naturally-formed rock which surrounded them on all sides. "We will be safe here for tonight. That is all that matters."

Aveline grunted and threw her weapon and shield away, sinking wearily onto one of the bedrolls. The boy did not rejoin his family; instead, he took a few steps closer to Flemeth, curiosity naked on his face. "You said that some of the Grey Wardens survived," he remarked. "The battle, I mean."

Growing curious herself, the soldier observed the exchange, rather than roll over. Her empty stomach would likely keep her from sleeping, in any case. The witch inclined her head. "So I did."

"Who were they?" The boy's brows knitted together in concern.

A heartbeat passed, but the woman evidently deigned to answer. "A human lad with more sword than sense, and an elven girl with a bit of magic about her," she said. "Both quite young, for the task ahead of them." Her eyes flashed in the firelight, and Aveline fancied that she saw the woman's pupils turn to slits for the briefest of moments. "How do they concern you?"

The boy swallowed. "I...think I might know them," he announced. "Did they give you their names?"

"The lad did," Flemeth confirmed, "before I could stop him. When the lass offered hers, I told her that names were pretty, but useless."

"Was the man called Alistair?" Hope once more found a home on the black-haired boy's face. "And did the elf have red eyes?"

Interest turned to fascination in Flemeth's expression, and she suddenly threw her head back, regaling the cavern with her cackles. "Of course!" She exclaimed, evidently delighted. "Now why didn't I see this before?"

That gave the boy pause. "...See what?" He ventured.

"Do not trouble yourself, young man," Flemeth said dismissively, still chuckling. "You and your sister will discover it well enough on your own. I have indulged you enough for one evening." Then, oddly, her eyes met Aveline's. "Perhaps you should show your guest more manners. She spoke of 'we', even though she does not even know your name."

The boy had the decency to look abashed, before he bridled again. "I thought you said names were useless."

"And they are," Flemeth insisted. "But as long as you're prattling amongst yourselves, you aren't distracting me...and seeing as how I'm all that's standing between you and a hundred thousand darkspawn, you would do well to keep from straining my attentions."

Cowed, the boy finally turned away, moving to confer with his surviving sister and their mother. Aveline rolled over, trying to sleep despite the hunger clawing at the insides of her ribs, but it was not long before the boy returned.

"I really am sorry," he mumbled. "About Wesley." The soldier did not stir at first, half-hoping he would go away, but when he proved more stubborn, she sighed.

Turning to look at him, she saw just how young he was for the first time...likely a decade her junior, or more. "And I'm sorry for your sister," she managed. "She was called Cethlenn, right?"

He nodded. "Cethlenn Hawke," he confirmed. "I'm Carver, and that's my twin sister, Bethany." The boy looked over his shoulder at the two women huddled by the fire. "Our mother's called Leandra."

"Is she an apostate, as well?" The question was harsher than she'd meant to ask, but she would not apologize for it; Wesley wouldn't have been ashamed of wondering it.

Carver shook his head. "Our father," he explained. "Malcolm Hawke." The smile he gave her was a bit forced. "There; you know us, we know you." He shifted, and she saw that he'd brought a pack with him. "Are you hungry?"

A growl bubbled up from her stomach, stealing Aveline's denial. Wordlessly, she accepted the bread he offered, along with a hank of dried mutton. The boy settled down across from her and dug into his own ration, and they ate in silence for several long moments. The food and the fire warmed her, and despite her grief, a different concern emerged in Aveline's thoughts. "Why did you shirk your duty?"

The overtures of friendliness nearly dissolved as Carver's face fell. "This is my duty," he replied, glancing at his family. "Getting my kin away from the Blight." The answer lingered for the space of a breath, before he returned her question. "And you? Why did you run?"

Aveline should have seen it coming, but the implication stung, nonetheless. "I swore my oath to serve the King of Ferelden," she retorted. "And I nearly died in that service...but I was released from it the moment King Cailan's heart stopped beating." Her eyes narrowed. "I'd bet you were a bannerman, though, and you were part of Teyrn Loghain's detachment."

She could see the anger and shame brewing just beneath the surface of Carver's eyes. "What of it?"

"So, your oath was still valid," she pointed out slowly, as though he were simple. "And you broke it."

The boy's voice was haughty, barely below a yell. "What difference does that make?" He crushed the last of his bread. "I'm saving my family," be reasoned. "Same as you."

"Yes," Aveline conceded, her blood heating up. "And we see how well that's turning out, for both of us."

Carver looked to reply, but a soft footfall drew his and Aveline's attention; Flemeth's mad eyes sharpened upon each of them in turn. "Such discord will get you nowhere," she counseled. "You have both lost much...and stand to lose more, if you fall prey to envy and mistrust."

Neither of them had any answer for that. With a hasty excuse, Carver retreated to his sister and mother, leaving Aveline alone on one side of the fire. The witch melted back into the shadows, and the Maker only knew what she got up to. Aveline had survived the battle, while Carver had run from it...at the behest of his superiors, whom he'd then betrayed. Their paths seemed intertwined, but the soldier could not ignore how distinctly they'd begun. Nevertheless, she managed to settle into something like sleep. In a way, she was grateful for the presence of the Hawkes-there was nothing left for her in Ferelden, and if she could see them safely to Kirkwall, perhaps she could eventually forgive herself for Wesley's death.

The night passed more quickly than Aveline thought possible, for soon enough the witch roused them from their fitful slumber. The world into which they emerged was even more of a wasteland than when they'd taken refuge, and the utter destruction of all life was awful to behold as the party continued its trek South. They spent six days crossing the Hinterlands by day and holing up amongst dying trees by night, though Flemeth stayed true to her promise, and the party avoided any more encounters with the darkspawn until the country grew green around them again.

Once Aveline and the Hawkes reached the Brecilian Passage, Flemeth declared her charity at an end. Reminding Carver of his agreement, she left them to follow the well-logged trail on their own. In another day's march it led to Gwaren, the village Loghain had helped to save during the Rebellion, and the nominal seat of his power, though it was rumoured he hadn't set foot in the place for years.

In the village proper, a few patrolling soldiers eyed the refugees warily, and Aveline worried that they'd all be taken for deserters. It became clear that Gwaren had been enjoying a booming trade in shipping off refugees in advance of the darkspawn, however; even before the fall of Ostagar, mere rumours of the Blight were enough to drive a great many Hinterlanders from their homes. Here, Bethany showed her resolve yet again, when she not only negotiated their entry into the village but managed to secure them all space in a hold. Aveline surmised that such bartering and bribing had been necessary skills for an apostate to develop, and she supposed they'd serve the girl well, where they headed-for even if Leandra Hawke's birthplace held a noblewoman's welcome for them, Aveline knew enough of Kirkwall's reputation to understand just how dangerous it could be for a foreign-born apostate.


	5. Refuge

After Aveline stopped answering his offers to talk with more than a grunt, Carver had discussed his speculations about Athadra with his sister and mother. The so-called Witch of the Wilds hadn't exactly confirmed them, and the warrior had gotten the distinct impression that further needling wouldn't be entirely wise. Leandra was still too devastated by Cethlenn's sudden death to offer much in the way of assurance, but Bethany seemed convinced that if the witch's words proved true, there stood a good chance that their childhood friend yet drew breath.

Of course, it was unlikely that they would ever see the elf again, even if she somehow managed to survive the accusations of treason which she would face, since the Hawkes had booked passage to the Free Marches. Further conversation, on any topic, proved impossible by the second day of the voyage; the ship's hold soon reeked of vomit and other effluent borne from rough seas, and there was hardly room for anyone to move, so tightly were the refugees packed. Eleven more days passed with heavy rain and high waves, and by the time the undersized but overstuffed carrack limped into Kirkwall's harbour, it was truly a miracle that none of the Hawkes nor Aveline had died of sheer seasickness.

Carver helped his mother and sister up out of the hold onto the deck of the ship, and gratefully took the hilt of his sword when Aveline silently offered it to him, before she made her own ascent up onto the deck. He still had nowhere to put the blade at rest, and so he carried it point-down to keep from arousing the wrong kind of attention. The warrior saw his mother hand over most of their coin to the seaman set to guard the ramp, and the family managed to plant their feet on dry ground after more than two weeks asea.

"Thank the Maker!" Bethany exclaimed, leaning heavily upon her staff. It had been Cethlenn's, and their father's beforehand. She hadn't wanted to take it from their sister's corpse, but it was more powerful than her old stave; even so, it had taken their mother reminding her of how their father's hands had shaped the staff for Bethany to take it up. With her free hand, the mage ruffled her hair, now cut much shorter than it had been for most of her life. The ship's captain had offered to take the onyx locks in lieu of a handful of silvers, and the young woman hadn't hesitated. Carver saw the change clearly now for the first time; he was reminded, more than anything, of their now-dead sibling-Cethlenn's hair was often wild, and had hardly ever crept past her ears.

Aveline rolled her shoulders and stepped in front of them. Carver blinked and glanced away from his sister, only to close his eyes against the light which reflected off of the templar shield which Aveline still carried-she'd offered to surrender it in Gwaren for Bethany's sake, and for her own space in the hold, but Bethany and Leandra had both managed to convince her to take their charity. "They're not letting anybody into the city," the soldier said at last, and Carver followed her gaze across the harbour. The city proper rose up out of the cliffs, in the misty distance. "This is the Gallows, where they normally keep the mages," she explained. That sent a stab of worry through Carver, on behalf of his sister, and he scanned the area for templars. Being unable to find any didn't exactly settle his nerves.

"Maybe they're just sorting everyone here," Leandra suggested, her tone a mixture of hope and lingering grief that she hadn't yet been able to process. "And we'll be let across the bay when we're put in order."

"Perhaps, Lady Hawke," Aveline replied. "We should seek out a guard and find out."

Carver felt her eyes weigh heavily upon him, soon joined by those of his mother and sister. "Alright," he sighed, acceding to their unvoiced demand that he take the lead. A flutter of nerves tickled through his belly, and the younger warrior felt his elder sister's absence keenly. She would have taken charge without hesitation. With a bracing breath, Carver pushed past his mother and their red-headed companion, and he sought out the nearest person in uniform. "Oy," Carver gruffed, by way of greeting. "When'll we get into the city?"

The unshaven, harassed-looking guard shrugged his shoulders. "If it were up to me, I'd have all you foreigners packed off back on your ships and sent back to Ferelden," he replied. "Or to Orlais," he added, grunting.

"But my mother was born here," Carver pointed out. "She has family."

The guard sighed. "Heard it all before, kid," he drawled. "Look here, it's my job to keep you all from rioting or spreading Blight sickness into the Gallows. You want to see if you can buy your way into town, you go up the stairs and talk to Captain Ewald." The casual suggestion of corruption gave the young warrior pause, but he didn't get a chance to investigate further before the guardsman continued. "Or you can march right back onto your boat and get the hell out of Kirkwall. Either way, stop bothering me."

Carver bristled, but something within the warrior made him hold his tongue; since he'd been elected to do the talking, it would be his fault if his smart mouth got them all thrown into the harbour. Instead, he nodded to his sister and Aveline, and led them up the stone stairway up into the Gallows proper. Carver still kept a sharp eye out for any templars, but he saw none in the vast open-air atrium of the structure. There were no mages that he could see, either, but there was an important-looking man currently being harangued by a group of dodgy-looking mercenaries.

"...you flamin' Blighter," one of the mercenaries cursed, and the guard simply rolled his eyes. "We paid good coin to get 'ere."

Despite being severely outnumbered, the guardsman seemed annoyed rather than intimidated. "You're too late," he drawled, not without some measure of sympathy. "We've been letting you Fereldans in for _months_, now. Ever since the rumours of the Blight started." Three of the seven Fereldans drew closer to the guardsman, reaching subtly for their weapons. The object of their ire stood his ground, however. "Kill me, if you like. That won't change the fact that you're stuck on this side of the harbour, with half of the city guard between you and the boats to the other side."

The armed men seethed, but did not press their luck; tension was thick in the air, nonetheless. Carver stalked up beside the men haranguing the guardsman. "What of people with legitimate business in the city?"

Bethany spoke up from behind him. "We have family here, ser."

The man heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can tell by your accents that you're both Fereldans," he said. "And I've heard lies like that for months. Unless you're a citizen or a merchant, you'll stay here until we get ships enough to send you back whence you came."

Carver was surprised when his mother pushed past him. "I am a citizen, messere," Leandra proclaimed, in the most polished form of her accent that Carver had ever heard. "My name is Leandra Amell. My brother Gamlen should still be in residence in Hightown. You are Captain Ewald?"

"I am," the guardsman confirmed, after a moment's pause. He looked halfway between awe and incredulity. "I know a man named Gamlen Amell," he admitted, his brows knitting. "Will he vouch for you?"

Leandra produced a small square of folded parchment. "If you give him this letter, he will. And then my children and I can cross?"

Captain Ewald took the letter and looked to reply, but one of the mercenaries scoffed. "What? You're gonna let them through?" When Carver got a good look at them, his stomach lurched. These weren't mere mercenaries seeking shelter, but deserters...proper ones, who'd fled from Ostagar after the third battle but before the final engagement. He recognized the faces of at least two of them.

Carver could see faint hints of the darkspawn corruption crawling up the neck of one of the men. Without thinking, he grabbed his mother and shoved her bodily away, so that he stood between her and the others. "Get her back," he half-yelled at Bethany. "Keep yourselves _out of trouble_," he insisted. No templars had materialized yet, but if things got out of hand, the warrior didn't trust them to remain aloof for long.

The Blight-sick man sneered. "We've been here for four days. They just got here!" He gave the man beside him, evidently the leader of their little band of runaways, a significant look.

"That's it," the pushy man exclaimed. "We're carvin' our way out of here. Men!" That last word he barked out, loudly enough to hear in all corners of the atrium.

Carver noticed Aveline's templar shield move into position from the corner of his eye, and the warrior didn't wait to see if Bethany had taken their mother away; he brought his sword up in a wide arc, nearly gutting the tainted man before the poor sod knew that battle had been joined. "Don't touch his blood," Carver cried out as the man fell. "He's got the Blight-sickness!"

And then Carver's ears filled with the ringing of steel, and the sound of his own rushing heartbeat, once again. The deserters' leader dueled him and Captain Ewald to a standstill for a good two minutes before the Fereldan and the Kirkwaller could overpower him. By that time, Aveline and a few guards were invested against the rest of the thugs who'd thought to take over the Gallows by force. They were a desperate lot, though, hungry and scared, and it wasn't too long before the last of them lay dead.

"Unbelievable," the guard-captain marveled, looking around at the carnage in disgust. After a breath, he looked to one of his guardsmen, one of the stragglers who hadn't actually been in the fight. "Where is everyone? I don't want this getting out of hand." When his subordinate vowed to secure the area, he turned back to Carver. "The only Gamlen I know of is a drunkard who never has two coppers to rub together," he said bluntly. "I can't get you into the city, serah. That isn't my decision. But I will find this Gamlen and see what he says about you."

As he stalked away, Carver turned to see Bethany and their mother come from a shadowed alcove where they'd hidden. "I wish I could've helped," Bethany breathed, when she got within whispering distance.

"I know," Carver allowed, throwing glances to either side. "It wouldn't do to bring the wrong kind of attention on us, though." When his sister nodded her agreement, the warrior looked to Aveline, who stood wiping blood from her shortsword. "Thank you," he managed, though part of him hoped that she was still trying to ignore him.

After a moment's consideration, the woman's stony features softened. "We should find some shelter," she counseled. "Kirkwall's even bigger than Denerim. It could take awhile to find someone, if your uncle even wishes to be found." The soldier threw a last look over the corpses she'd helped to make, and appeared ready to say something else, but she dropped whatever might be bothering her just as Carver turned to seek out one of the covered wings of the alcove.

Aveline's prediction proved apt, for they saw the sun peak above them twice more. "It's been three days," the soldier lamented, on the third forenoon. Her patience had grown shorter with each passing hour, the uncertainty of her position hanging over all of them like a headsman's axe. "This waiting has to end."

"Oh, dear," Leandra sighed. "I'm certain my brother will turn up."

"If they can find him," Aveline pointed out. "And even then...he may be able to admit you to the city, but what of me? What business have I in Kirkwall?"

Bethany broke in. "Gamlen's supposed to be nobility, with an estate in Hightown," she pointed out. "Surely that means he'll have some influence."

Carver nodded. "You helped us get here in the first place," he said. "We'll all get in." A commotion near the main stairs of the ancient prison drew his attention, and he saw an older man make his way toward them, with Captain Ewald a half-step behind. "Don't look now, but I think our luck might've changed."

The man drew nearer, and Leandra's reaction confirmed his identity. "Gamlen!" Like a much younger woman, she sprung up and threw herself into his arms.

Gamlen returned the embrace with just a hint of reluctance. "Leandra," he gruffed. "Damn, girl. The years haven't been kind to you!" His mission a success, Captain Ewald parted company with the refugees. When Carver's mother pulled away and Carver got a decent look at her brother, his lungs emptied in a sigh. The man's clothes looked like they hadn't been changed in weeks, and he had the stink of old whiskey about him.

Even so, Leandra seemed happier than she'd been since Cethlenn's passing. "Oh, Gamlen. It's so good to see you! How have you been?"

The man's face twitched. "Let me say up front," he began, with a placating wave of his hand. "I never expected this-the Blight. Your husband...gone." Something approaching guilt twisted across his features. "I figured you'd decided to be Fereldan for life."

Mention of her deceased husband must have brought Leandra's more recent loss to the fore. "We almost didn't make it," she admitted. "And my poor, dear Ceth..." A sob escaped the woman's throat, and she looked directly into her brother's face. "I've lost my eldest child to get here. We wouldn't've come if there were any other way."

Carver saw his uncle swallow. "Maker help me," the older man called. "Don't drop this on me here, Leandra. I'm not even sure I can get you in."

The warrior had nearly had enough. "So you're just going to leave your own flesh and blood in a lurch? Is that it?"

Gamlen blinked several times, his eyes moving from his nephew's face to the gleaming sword he wielded, whose point had risen half a metre. "I-I was hoping to grease some palms," he stammered. "But the knight-commander's been cracking down." The man sneered. "We're gonna need more grease."

Leandra spoke up once more. "But...what about the estate? Surely Father left something for us when he died?"

Another shadow passed over her brother's features, and Carver felt like raising his sword a few centimetres higher. "Yes, that..." Gamlen began, unable to meet their eyes. "The estate's...gone. To settle a debt." The bastard even managed to chuckle. "I've been meaning to write you."

"Then there really is no hope," Bethany sighed, forlornly.

At this, Gamlen's embarrassed mumbling ceased, and he managed to give the refugees something approaching a hopeful smile. "Not quite," he claimed. "I know some people who might help...if you're not too delicate about the company you keep."

Carver felt like he'd swallowed lead. "What do you mean?"

"In a few hours, some contacts of mine will show up," Gamlen elaborated. "Athenril is...something like a small-time smuggler, while Meeran is the captain of a mercenary troupe known as the Red Iron. They could both use some...skilled help." The man rubbed his neck. "You'll have to choose which one of them to sign on with, and they'll pay your way into the city."

Carver's head tilted. "What's the catch?"

Gamlen hesitated. "You and your sister will have to work off the debt...for a year."

Leandra gasped. "A year?" She looked from her brother to her children, worry carved into her expression.

"At least," Gamlen amended. "It's the best I could do!" He threw up his hands. "Trust me when I say that a couple of Fereldan refugees aren't going to get any better offers."

Aveline stepped up beside Carver. "And what of me? I will have no debts incurred on my behalf."

The older man regarded her coolly. "Leandra's letter didn't mention any ginger hangers-on," he commented. "You look like a woman who can hold her own weight, though. You can see if Meeran or Athenril will take you on, if you like."

"Then you'll come with us," Leandra stated. "We'll not see you abandoned after all we've been through together."

Carver felt the red-haired soldier tense. "I...have no real option," she admitted. "Thank you."

"No problem," Carver shot back, trying out a friendly smile. When he saw her eyebrows crinkle in response, the young warrior dropped the pretense. "Now, let's see if we have enough coin for a good rat stew before these characters arrive."

The gruel provided for the refugees wasn't much more than water, truthfully, but anything else was far too expensive for them to afford. Dimly, Carver wondered if such fare was what the mages ate, but he was far too protective of Bethany to investigate his suspicions further. Gamlen approached his younger relations and their companion after nearly an hour and pointed out the alcove where Athenril waited to measure their worth to her. She turned out to be a tall, hard-bitten elf with a scar cutting across her left eyebrow, and she made little issue over her business.

"I need people who can keep my shipments safe from the Coterie," the elf admitted. "Steel and spells."

Carver felt his heart leap up into his throat, when he stopped listening to the melody in the elf's voice and finally comprehended her words. "Did our uncle tell you-"

"About your sister, aye," Athenril confirmed. "We can keep her safe, so long as she works with us. Wouldn't be the first time."

Aveline spoke up. "What is this 'coterie'?"

The elf shrugged. "An _association_ that takes a cut of half of the black market in this town." She shook her head. "Me and my friends don't like paying the toll, so we're willing to take on some extra hands to keep their collectors at bay."

Carver cleared his throat. "And what exactly will we be doing for you?"

"We keep our fingers in a lot of pots, if you know what I mean," Athenril said, evasively. "No killin' nor slavin', but anything else is fair game."

Aveline leaned closer to Bethany. "Do what you want," she breathed. "But this sounds fishy, to me."

The mage laughed. "We can't be choosy."

Yet Carver had to admit that his suspicions aligned with those of his fellow warrior. "How exactly did you turn out to be one of our uncle's _contacts_?"

The elf's eyes widened. "Is _that_ what he called me?" She shared a laugh with the two other shady-looking elves who stood with her. "He owes us after his last big idea went tits-up. If you're as good as he claims, we'll be even after a year."

The young warrior felt like throwing up his gruel, to realize that Gamlen was _selling them_ to settle his debts. "We'll...need some time to think it over," he stalled. "Will you be here?"

Another shrug. "If I am, we can deal. If I'm not, you never heard my name. Got it?"

The boy nodded. "Never saw you before." He took a few steps backward before turning, and his two companions followed him across the atrium to the opposite wing. Along the way, Gamlen pointed them to the corner, where an older-looking man in red steel armour stood with a couple of helmed underlings. "You're Meeran, I take it?"

The man turned and gave him a once-over. "Heh. So you're Hawke?" He looked underawed. "Your uncle talked up a storm about you. He'd better not be blowin' smoke out of his arse."

"What does Gamlen owe you, then?" Carver resisted the strange urge to boast in front of the man; he'd helped to save Captain Ewald's life, after all. Being addressed by his surname felt odd, but not entirely unwelcome; he just hoped his father would be proud.

Meeran chuckled. "Cheated one o' mine at a wallop match," he remarked. "You turn out, we'll call it square."

The boy sighed. "Should've known. He said you were a mercenary?"

The man's brows rose. "Right, you ain't a Marcher like your uncle," he reasoned. "The Red Iron's pretty well-known about these parts. We keep our noses clean and pick who we work for." He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, and Carver saw a sneer cross his face. "Of course, anyone tries to cheat us, we teach 'em why that's not such a smart idea."

Bethany cleared her throat. "I never pictured myself as the mercenary type, to be honest."

"You're the reason we're willing to pay to get you two here in the first place," Meeran pointed out. "Gamlen let us know, and that got me interested."

"Maker," Carver lamented. "Is there anyone in the Gallows that doesn't know?"

Meeran snickered. "Is she gettin' hauled up past the grille?" He shook his head. "She can walk out of here with us, and we'll keep her safe from the templars. Most companies have one or two at a time."

Aveline broke in again. "And what of me? Would you be willing to take on another hand?"

The captain regarded the woman seriously. "Gamlen didn't breathe a word about you...but you look stout enough." His eyes moved to the hilt of her sword, peeking out over her shoulder. "Know how to wield that thing?"

The woman stood up straighter and clapped a hand to her breast. "I was a lieutenant in King Cailan's army, ser."

"And I was a private," Carver pointed out, unable to resist the impulse at the last.

"Right," Meeran drawled, but he considered them all evenly. "You'll do...if you can pass the test."

Carver took a breath, and looked at his sister and Aveline. The soldier looked almost eager to prove her worth, and much more comfortable with the above-board bloodiness the Red Iron offered. Bethany's resolve was far less clear. "What do you think, Beth?"

The mage hesitated, glancing across the way to where Athenril likely still awaited their return. "I...don't know," she answered. "There are risks either way."

The older man grunted. "You'll have to kill people, like as not," Meeran informed them. "Not just monsters. But there's nothing we do that'll get the magistrates after you, and we can handle the templars."

Bethany's frown slowly dissolved. "I guess there are worse lines of work."

When Carver nodded, Meeran broke out into a grin, and told them the price of their admission into Kirkwall. A minor noble by the name of Friedrich had tried to set the company up, and now looked to flee Kirkwall disguised as a Fereldan refugee. With Meeran's assurances that the man's murder would be _dealt with_, Carver and Aveline saw to it themselves; Meeran agreed that Bethany's use of magic could be tested well away from the centre of the templars' power. When their task was done and Friedrich's purse split between them, the two unlikely companions returned to their new boss. Scarcely an hour later, the refugees set foot on Kirkwall's proper docks, and the newly-made mercenaries were allowed to escort Leandra to Gamlen's hovel in the lower section of the city.

It was called _Lowtown_, where the city's poor and most of the workmen lived, and where Gamlen said that he and Leandra would have to make their home. The young Hawkes and Aveline would live in the barracks of the Red Iron, under something approaching military discipline. The news was hard for Leandra to bear, but she saw her children off with tearful hugs, and they promised to visit as often as they could until their term was up. Carver had mixed feelings on the matter-he knew he'd miss his mother terribly, if he were honest with himself, but he took some measure of relief in the fact that he wouldn't have to see Gamlen's sullen face to remind him of the cause of that separation. And, just perhaps, he could find a place for himself amidst Meeran's sellswords, after all.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks yet again, as always, to my fantastic beta-reader **clafount**!


	6. The Red Door

Author's note: As always, many thanks go to clafount for her wonderful beta-reading skills!

* * *

Thus began Bethany's first day as a Red Iron spelltosser. At first she felt horribly resentful and guilty; the former because she was told that she would only see her mother perhaps one or two days out of a month, and the latter because Captain Meeran had staked a lot of his company's fortunes on her abilities...and, if she were honest with herself, Bethany had to admit that she wasn't a particularly good fighter. She'd managed to fight for her life against the darkspawn, at least until the ogre had nearly killed her; now, nearly every time she held onto her staff, she couldn't help but remember Cethlenn shoving her backwards and out of danger.

"Here's your quarters," Meeran gruffed, tilting his head to a burgundy door. "You'll all three find arms and armour within, standard-issue." Bethany saw his eyes catch just over her shoulder, at the staff which had belonged to her father and sister before her. "Don't think the stick we've got is as fancy as that one, though," he commented offhandedly. "You can keep it."

"Thank you, ser," Bethany breathed, suddenly warming to the man. He'd already told them that they wouldn't be paid a penny-or, rather, that their year's wages had already gone into the templars' and guards' hands, to get them into the city. Yet, as short as he could be, Meeran obviously cared about the men and women in his company.

The man grunted. "Best get used to saying 'serah' or 'messere' if you don't want to get called a dog lord for the rest of your life." Barcus whuffed from beside his mistress, and Meeran barked a laugh in return. "Though I suppose it'll be hard for you to avoid that, no matter how you sound." He shook his head and gestured down the corridor. "Mess hall's straight that way. Meal-bells ring three times a day, and I'd best see you all at table within five minutes of the clax." He squared his shoulders, regarding each of them evenly. "Any questions?"

Carver spoke up. "When will we get into the field?"

Bethany saw Meeran's forehead crease, but she couldn't tell whether it was mirth or consternation. "Sergeant Halsten'll come by in the morning to put you through your paces. If he thinks you're up to scratch, you could see action inside of a week."

At that, the mage felt her throat constrict. "And...what if he doesn't think so?"

Meeran actually smiled, then. "Well," he sighed, "it'll be his job to get you into fighting form, and it'll be your job to do everything he thinks'll get you there. But you should all rest up tonight. I promise you'll need it." With a brief nod, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor.

"That was...unexpected," Aveline ventured.

Bethany shrugged. "I suppose we should do as he says," she mused. She could tell that the other two looked tired from the two skirmishes they'd had to fight, and another pang of guilt clenched at her breast. With an odd feeling of nerves, Bethany turned the door's crimson handle-_Maker_, she thought, _is everything in this blasted house red?_-and stepped into the small room. The answer to her unvoiced question was a resounding _yes_. Once she'd found and lit a lamp, the mage saw that the ceiling, walls, floor, and beds all had red-stained wood. A standalone cot was placed on the left, while a two-bunker stood empty on the right.

"I'll take the top bunk," Carver said, just a moment before Aveline could claim the same.

The older warrior inclined her head toward a smaller door. "There's the privy, I'd wager," she pronounced. "If you know what's good for you, you'll use it." Bethany's eyebrow raised at Carver's laugh. He pledged to be diligent, and Aveline nodded. "Then I'll take the bottom."

Bethany swallowed. "Don't you want the single bed?" Almost at once she regretted the question, for a brief flicker of pain crossed over the former lieutenant's features.

"I..." Aveline broke off, shaking her head. "The bottom bunk will serve me fine."

"That's settled, then," Carver announced. "If this serge's anything like my old one, we'll get roused at six bells." The young warrior carefully leaned his sword into a corner and took off his boots and bloodied shirt. Aveline made her own preparations for bed; Bethany stayed silent as the other woman wedged Ser Wesley's shield firmly into the underside of the top bunk, so that she might look upon it in the night.

Bethany shrugged, still too nervous to consider sleeping, and took stock of the rest of the room. Aside from the privy, there was an alcove with two shelves of books which flanked a modest wardrobe and three stands of armour alongside a rack of weapons. The rack held a greatblade, a one-handed longsword, and a metal stave; all were forged from red steel. Only the shield propped up against the rack was truly grey, though of course it had the crimson-soaked insignia of the mercenary company prominently displayed. The mage closed in on the armour stands, inspecting the uniforms they'd be expected to wear. Two looked almost identical to the chain and plate which Meeran and his warriors wore, with shades of black and scarlet and crimson, but the leftmost stand held what Bethany could only assume were armoured robes, meant for herself.

When she ran a finger along the apron of red iron chainmail, Bethany felt a shimmer of power from the cloth beneath, and closer inspection revealed rust-coloured trousers and a tunic rather than the one-piece dresses which her father had told her were mandatory amongst the Circle's mages. Still, the cloth of the red garments must have been cut of the same arcane threads with which the Circle's robes were fashioned, and parts of Bethany couldn't wait to try them on. The only thing that gave her pause was the belt, which held a pair of large daggers-her father and sister had often trained with the blades as a back-up for when magic wouldn't suit, but Bethany herself had never gotten around to it. With a little sigh, she unlimbered her staff and placed it on the rack in place of the metal stave, which she tucked beside one of the bookshelves. "They'll probably make me dye it," she muttered to herself as she regarded the crosshatched wood of her father's staff.

"That'll be your first contribution," Carver breathed, from a half-step behind her.

The surprise of the whisper quickly gave way to a warm sort of gratitude, and Bethany offered her brother a small smile. "That's a good way to look at it, I suppose." Another glance at the bookshelves had her yearning to run her fingers over the leather bindings of the codexes, but that could wait until morning. "Good night, Carver," Bethany offered. "And Aveline."

"Night, Beth," the warrior replied, just before Aveline gave her own answer. The pair of them had stripped down to their smallclothes and now settled into their bunks without complaint.

Bethany lay upon her singleton still dressed in the functional robe she'd made for herself the year before. It was hours before the even breathing of her brother and his bunkmate lulled her to sleep, but even then, her dreams were tinged with red. Only a few minutes passed, or so it seemed, before the door sounded with three sharp knocks. Barcus rumbled a low growl in greeting, but Bethany came to her senses quickly enough to place a hand on the dog's thick neck.

"Come in," Aveline called; through the haze of waking, Bethany saw that both she and Carver were already awake and armoured.

The door swung inward, admitting a short man with even more grey hair than Meeran, though his leaf-green eyes were sharp. "Name's Halsten," he allowed. "Sergeant Halsten, to you three." When his gaze lit upon Bethany, still sitting at the edge of her bed in her own clothes, his whiskered lip curled. "Meeran's got me to see if you lot're ready to fight, but you already knew that." The way he said it made Bethany feel stupid-surely she should have realised that he would expect them all to be parade-ready for him. "Get dressed, serah mage."

A suspicion threatened, that he would leer at her while she changed clothes, but Halsten retreated and shut the door. With a sigh, Bethany pushed herself off of the bed, stifling a yawn. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Carver shrugged off the accusation. "You looked like you could use the rest. It...won't be a big deal, if the serge thinks you need a few weeks' training before..."

He didn't need to finish the thought. Bethany fought the urge to frown; part of her wanted to prove herself, but much of the rest of her was just as frightened as her brother must have imagined her to be. "Help me into that get-up," she asked, nodding toward the only armour rack still dressed. As the mage unlaced her handmade garments, Aveline took it upon herself to turn around, which made Bethany grateful. She and Carver had shared baths for years when they were younger, and later the occasional naked swim in the pond near their home, so him helping her into the new uniform didn't give her a second thought...but Aveline's circumspection was welcome, all the same.

Finally, Bethany felt the subtle tingling of the lyrium-imbued cloth, and when she shouldered her staff, the weight seemed to lighten as her mana whispered about her. "Alright," she called. "We're ready, sergeant."

The man re-entered their dormitory and studied them evenly, even the mabari. Barcus still seemed nervous, but another soothing gesture from his mistress kept him silent. "Well, well," Halsten began. "In your proper gear, you all look a good team. Messere, you say you were a lieutenant?"

Aveline took a half-step forward. "I was, serah," she confirmed. "In the royal regiment directly under King Cailan's command."

"You stood with him at Ostagar?" The man's face seemed halfway between suspicion and respect.

"I did, sergeant," Aveline replied. "For a time, at least. When...when Teyrn Loghain's gambit failed to materialise in a goodly amount of time, the king ordered me and a small company to secure the valley for a possible retreat."

Halsten nodded slowly. "So you fought darkspawn toe-to-toe and lived. Good." When his eyes moved on to Carver, Aveline stepped back. Bethany was too fixated on looking at their interrogator to take note of her expression, but the elder warrior's tone had been perfectly even. "You, boy," Halsten continued. "You at Ostagar, too? What was your position?"

Carver's voice shook, just slightly. "Second rank, right flank," he pronounced. "I was in two proper battles while I was a private, and I fought darkspawn on the way here with Aveline and my sister."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Were you with the king's army, too?"

At her brother's pause, Bethany chanced a glance his way. He looked nearly as ill as he'd seemed that first night back, just for an instant. Then he blinked. "No, ser...rah," he drawled, correcting himself. "I was a bannerman of Bann Coerlic, whose fealty lay with Teyrn Loghain."

"Then why in the Void are you standing here, lad?" Halsten's tone was cold enough to chill lava.

"Because of me," Bethany blurted out, shame and guilt giving her an odd sort of courage. She shrugged her shoulder, jostling her father's staff. "He ran away from the army to protect me and our older sister, to get us out of the Blight's path."

When Sergeant Halsten's eyes found her again, that brief glimmer of courage failed. "Other sister?" His brow rose. "I wasn't told of another one."

Aveline spoke up again. "She...died, messere. Protecting her mother from an ogre."

The frank admission did much to cut the rising tension in the room. Halsten didn't look satisfied, exactly, but he nodded just the same, looking straight at Bethany. "And you fought the darkspawn on the way here, as well?"

"I did, messere," Bethany confirmed, adopting Aveline's term. "I can do a bit of healing, and call up fire and ice when I need to."

The information seemed to restore a bit of the sergeant's confidence. "That's good. You lot're lucky, in a way-not too many raw recruits get a suite with a library in." Another knife's worth of guilt lanced through Bethany-she knew, without having to be told, that the room was to keep her away from the other mercenaries...but she was glad that Meeran had kept her brother with her. Halsten nodded over her shoulder to the bookshelves. "The Red Iron's amassed a fair collection of tomes on magic in our time. We've not had a proper mage in a couple of years. It'll be good to open the Cellar again."

That threw Bethany off her guard. "The...cellar?"

"That's what we call your training yard. A nice room below-decks with lead and aurum behind the walls, to keep templars from sussing you while you practice." He shot a glance to the other two. "You'll practice in the courtyard, with the rest of us. But first, we're all going to the Cellar, so you can show me what you can do."

Despite its name, the Cellar was actually quite spacious and well-lit. Bethany could feel the subtle anti-magic wards emanating from the ceiling and wall, and she understood that they kept the magical energies contained in the space. It was ingenious, really. A templar could be standing right over them while she summoned a blizzard and they'd likely be none the wiser.

Once all of them were inside and the door firmly shut, Sergeant Halsten inclined his head to Aveline. "Go on, then," he prompted, nodding toward a large wooden dummy near the back of the room. "Show us what you've got, lieutenant."

Bethany drew in a breath as Aveline squared her shoulders and unlimbered her shield. She rushed the wooden man without drawing her sword; a _thwack_ sounded when the warrior ran headlong into the dummy, followed by two more in quick succession as she bashed and pummeled it. With a grunt, Aveline produced her red steel blade, sending woodchips flying when she lashed out in a wide arc. The woman grunted as she set to work on the dummy, embellishing her moves with some simple dodges and sidesteps, as though it were a live enemy fighting back at her.

After a few minutes, the sergeant whistled and called her off. "That was pretty good, serah," he commented. "Take a rest at the bench. Boy!" He barked. "You're up next."

"Yes, sergeant," Carver shot back. He closed the distance in a few quick bounds, unshouldering his new crimson-tinged greatblead as he went. It was less curved than his old one, but still fluted, and he seemed to carry it just as easily. Except for the occasional grunt, the young warrior was silent as he scythed and sliced at the dummy. More chunks of wood shed from the bodypost, and Carver finished off by leaping high into the air and bringing the sword down like an axe. That split the wooden man cleanly in two, leaving a cross-cut stump standing proudly. At Halsten's dismissal, the warrior retreated, re-sheathing his blade and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Good, good..." the sergeant allowed. "Now you, serah mage. Let's see what you've got."

Nerves made Bethany's fingers weak. "I can...do a few spells from this range."

Halsten shook his head, but he showed none of the distaste that the mage might have expected. "Get closer. I want to see how you handle yourself hand-to-hand, as well as with magic."

Swallowing with a bit of difficulty, Bethany marched closer to the ruined log, with Barcus never more than half a pace away. Halsten apparently knew enough about mabari hounds not to bother trying to give the beast orders directly, which relieved the mage; she couldn't stand the thought of him being kenneled like an Orlesian mutt. With a steadying breath, she closed the distance to her target, gathering her mana as she did so. The mage began with a few strikes of the steel-capped end of her staff; the force of the strikes shook up through the wooden shaft and into her arms, and after only a half-minute's exertion she felt the weight of her chain growing heavier.

Barcus got in on the act, for when she stepped back, he lunged in to snap at the chipped shaft of wood. "Heel, boy," Bethany urged. When the dog returned to her side, she let off a small fireball that caught on the wood, throwing the red walls into bright relief. The mage followed-up with a freezing spell which squelched the flames, and left the wood so brittle that it shattered after another series of blows from the staff. Panting, Bethany turned to the sergeant.

The man looked unimpressed. "You forgot about your shankers, lass," he said lightly.

Heat bloomed over Bethany's cheeks-in the effort of her display, she had indeed forgotten about the blades at her hips. "I've...not really used daggers before, sergeant," she admitted.

That got those green eyes of his to narrowing. "Really, now?" He shook his head. "You'd best pick it up." The man glanced at the warriors. "You two are cleared for duty. From now on, you hit the practice yard up top until breakfast bell, then light calisthenics until lunch. Then weights until supper, and more yard-work until evening. Understood?" When Aveline and Carver voiced their assent, he nodded at them. "You'll get told your missions as and when. Go clean your weapons until breakfast."

Bethany shared a glance with Carver as he stood up and filed out behind the other warrior. Then she turned to the sergeant. "And...what am I to do, serah?"

"You're gonna put that staff up and go fetch a pair of wooden daggers. You'll spend a third of the day practicing with me, a third of the day working on your spells, and the other third studying in your dorm. Them books were hard-won, lass. Now, get on," he prompted her, nodding toward a rack of practice weapons. When she'd retrieved the mock-weapons, he produced a cudgel of his own. "You ready?"

She wasn't, as Halsten proved convincingly not long after. The room rang with the sound of wood-on-wood, and more than a little wood-on-steel-nearly all of the latter from the cudgel impacting Bethany's torso. They worked past the breakfast bell, until both were drenched in sweat and Bethany was covered in bruises. More than once when the mage cried out in pain or consternation, Barcus threatened to intervene, but somehow she always found the strength to call the hound off. A half-hour before lunchtime, or so the sergeant said, he called their labours to a halt.

"You still got a lot to learn, girl," he cautioned her. "But...if you work at it, I'll have you earnin' your keep inside of a month. Now rest up until the bell, then go eat. Afterwards, come down here and practice your magic until suppertime." Bethany was inordinately proud of herself that she could hear a hitch in the older man's voice. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, right here." With that, Sergeant Halsten retreated from the room, leaving the mage alone with her mabari and her bruises.

Waking up before dawn and working until past dusk was a normal part of growing up on a farm, but Bethany was soon exhausted by the routine of strenuous physical exercise that Halsten put her through. She barely saw Aveline or Carver outside of the hour before bedtime and the few minutes of morning; as good as the sergeant's word, they were both called-in to a job within the first week, while Halsten still spent his mornings working her over or supervising her calisthenics. For the next five weeks, Bethany only had her staff and her dog to keep her company in between lunch and suppertime while she went to work honing her elemental abilities. Eventually, Halsten urged her to improve her healing as well, especially at range.

At night, Bethany tried her hand at studying the codexes provided for her. Just over half of them were useless, though, written either in the modern Tevinter tongue of Arcanum or the more traditional Ancient Tevene. From what little she knew of either tongue, however, the mage had cause to be grateful...from the titles alone, she suspected that nearly every tome held some kind of forbidden magics. Even some of the books in the King's Tongue held brands of magic that her father had taken pains to warn her against. Without Cethlenn and their father, such arcane work was bitterly lonely, but the solitary mage bent herself to the task of deepening her mastery of the elements and healing arts.

As the sergeant had said, the Red Iron had no other mages currently in their employ, and nearly everyone besides her brother and Aveline seemed wary of getting too close to her. Bethany didn't really begrudge them their concern; they could not know what it was like to walk the Fade in waking dreams, to have to constantly guard yourself against the possibility of a demon's offer. Not that Bethany had gotten too much practice with either...growing up, she hadn't had access to nearly enough lyrium to explore the Fade, and now that her supply was nearly unlimited, the prospect held very little appeal. Even so, she kept her hair short in her sister's memory, and after many weeks of difficult work, Bethany felt the weight of her chainmail begin to lessen. When the call came for her to go _into the field_, as Carver and the mercenaries termed it, Bethany's training had begun to take root. As she'd suspected, though, Sergeant Halsten strongly encouraged her to stain the golden wood of her father's staff with a dark crimson ochre, in order to better fit with the other soldiers in the company. Bethany did so with only a bit of reluctance, taking the opportunity to acquaint herself more thoroughly with the different magics which her father and sister had poured into the arcane weapon.

Aveline and Carver took to their new lives much more quickly; her brother said that some days, it felt like he was back in Ostagar, before the whole world had turned upside-down. A distance remained between the two fighters, and Bethany wasn't sure it would ever be properly bridged. Sometimes, in the evenings, Bethany caught Aveline throwing the younger warrior a cold look, when she thought no one could see. The older woman hardly ever spoke of her own loss, which made it easy to forget that it had happened, so Bethany had to remind herself to show the woman kindness...even if the mage wasn't exactly distraught over Wesley's death. Bethany had spent her life being frightened of templars, and Wesley had only relented from his duty at Aveline's reprimand, which Bethany also took care never to forget.

It was obvious that Ostagar and its aftermath had changed Carver, though it was difficult to tell whether it was for the better or the worse. He seemed to have grown up quite a lot in only a few months, and the mage had to admit that there was some distance between them, now, where before there'd been none. True, her brother no longer acted like nailing her now non-existent braid to the headboard was a good idea, but he'd also started to drink and keep counsel with violent men who encouraged his own violence in their turn. They called him 'Hawke', and though the nickname sat uneasily upon him at first, Bethany saw him grow into it over time. Eventually, he took to spending much of his free-time in the company of a mustachioed man called Gustav, whose gaze often seemed overly-familiar whenever it fell upon Bethany. Sometimes Carver would disappear for days on end with Gustav and a few other brutes on small missions, and when he returned, her brother always seemed a bit rougher and more short-tempered.

For her part, Aveline seemed perfectly comfortable doing the Red Iron's bloody work, as long as they could excuse their killing as self-defense...and, given how fond the nobles of the Free Marches seemed to be of hiring small armies to outmanoeuvre one-another, the two warriors could fill a crimson river as the months wore on. Eventually, Bethany managed to hit her stride outside of the practice yard as well. The first proper man to fall to her spells shook Bethany for days, until her brother told her of his own flight from the army and the death he'd had to deal to see it succeed. As weeks passed into months, the sight of other people's blood on her staff and her hands stopped unsettling the mage so much, and she became glad that her mother and uncle saw her so rarely. She learnt to acquit herself with dagger and staff well enough to earn Meeran's approval, though he seemed much taken with her brother's skill and growing lack of mercy.

Approval was about all that any of the three of them earned, though. Technically, they were paid for each job that took them outside of the barracks, according to the Red Iron's books. Yet, as Meeran had told them, the cost of getting into Kirkwall saw the refugees' supposed earnings vanish. Since Aveline had only herself to account for, her debt was smaller, and by the second week of Wintersend she was released from her bond. The Hawkes had also brought in their mother, whose claim to citizenship hadn't lightened the bribes needed to get her across the harbour, and they also had to contend with Meeran's grudge against Gamlen to boot.

In what seemed like no time at all, the end of the next Justinian approached them. "Aveline's with the city guard, now," Carver mentioned offhandedly as he broke his fast with Bethany, the day before they were set to leave the Red Iron's barracks for good. "Think she'll put in a good word for me?"

"I...don't know," Bethany answered. "I hope so, though." As glad as she was to have her freedom at last, it still brought a great deal of uncertainty...and the removal of Meeran's protection added templars to the equation. Then Carver spent the day training with Gustav and his other friends, and Bethany suddenly couldn't wait to get out of the red building.

Meeran accompanied them on their last job, which saw a nobleman from Tantervale bloodily disinherited from his estate in Kirkwall. When the man's guards lay dead around them, the mercenary captain clapped arms with each of the Hawke siblings. "Your term's up, Hawke," he gruffed, inclining his head to Carver. "Been a pain in my arse, but a ruddy effective one." Another nod to Bethany. "And your talents will be missed, as well. If either of you decide bein' free and poor in Lowtown ain't worth a bucket of rat piss, you come back to me, and we'll work out a proper contract."

Carver's head tilted. "Without any debts to Gamlen?"

"Who?" The faux-confusion on Meeran's face turned to a cheshire grin. "You want to re-up, I'll pretend I never knew the bastard."

The twins shared a glance. "We'll...think about it," Carver allowed, before he and Bethany walked out of the nobleman's blood-soaked house and back to Lowtown. Instead of turning down the alley to the Red Iron's barracks, however, the Hawkes cut through the narrow streets back to Gamlen's hovel.


	7. Dolchstoss

Aveline couldn't believe her eye, even as she double-checked the roster. Part of her cursed the string of luck she seemed to have had; this was the third night she'd be patrolling Lowtown with Donnic Hendyr, and every time she got within ten feet of the man, her tongue seemed to turn to lead. When she wasn't slashing at bandits, her feet and hands fared little better in his presence, as well. _Just like with Wesley_, a small voice reminded her. But she was too old now, and had seen too much of the world, to believe that such an infatuation could bear fruit half so sweet again.

Her guardsman's plate hung more heavily on her frame than the Red Iron uniform she'd left behind half a year before, but she welcomed the weight, as well as the new sword and shield. The uniform held not a single stitch of red, save the cowhide band she wore as a circlet to hold back her hair, which suited her just fine. The guardswoman still kept Wesley's shield above her bunk in the guards' barracks, but in the span of time since she'd left the man behind, it became just a little easier to get to sleep beneath it. She preferred to remember her husband as he'd been before Ostagar, with his keen eyes and unshakeable faith in the Maker's plan. Her own had never been half so strong.

"Oy, Red. You gonna hog the roster all afternoon?" The voice jolted at her, breaking her from the memory.

"Sorry, Gillam." With a single step, Aveline moved out of the man's path, but she didn't like the leer he gave her. "Keep your eyes to yourself," she grunted, and turned to go to the mess. The woman didn't hear the guardsman's reply, but she felt his eyes lingering on her, nonetheless. If he wasn't careful, he'd wind up with only one sword to swing.

The annoyance was enough to distract her halfway through her meal, until someone plopped down beside her. "So..." That voice was enough to make the guardswoman drop her spoon. "I see we're both on for Lowtown, tonight."

A curt nod, and a spoonful of soup to excuse herself from having to speak.

Donnic barked a laugh. "Talkative as always, eh, Aveline?"

That earned him a shrug.

"Listen," the man went on. "Don't pay any attention to Gillam. He's in a bad mood because his girl at the Rose..." Now it was Donnic's turn to stumble, and if she turned her head just slightly, Aveline thought she might catch a blush beneath the man's stubble. "...sorry, I guess you don't really want to hear that."

"It's fine," Aveline forced herself to say. "Really." She'd been teased about her hair and freckles all her life; there was no use complaining about it now. "It's nothing to what I got with the mercenaries. 'Didn't see you there,'" she mocked, lowering her register. "'Must've blended in with the walls!'"

Another laugh boomed. "Why on Earth would they say that?"

Aveline swallowed another spoonful of soup. "Because," she snorted, "the whole bloody place was red, carpet to capstone. They...were a bit obsessed."

"Right," Donnic reasoned. "Call themselves the Red Iron, don't they?"

Aveline's lips parted, but then she realised who she was talking to, and her stomach gave a jerk that had nothing to do with the piss-poor soup. "Right," she supplied, and twisted off the bench-away from Donnic-to make another retreat.

"Hang on, woman," Donnic called after her. "No, really," he said, when she showed no signs of slowing. "Captain's got a message for you."

That froze the guardswoman in her tracks. She didn't turn, but she let Donnic catch up with her, all the same. When he merely stood there, she forced herself to throw him a glance. "Well?"

He cocked an eyebrow in that way he had, that drove her up the wall enough to want to smack him, and then smack him again for how bad smacking him the first time would've made her feel. "Do you realise that this is the most we've spoken in two days?" When that failed to elicit a response, Donnic sighed. "Two days where we've spent a cumulative twelve hours together?"

The muscle in Aveline's jaw twitched proudly. "Your point?"

The guardsman sighed again. "Do I smell funny, or what? If you don't like patrolling with me, just say so."

His directness was maddening and attractive in equal measure, but she couldn't put voice to either emotion. Instead, she merely shook her head. "I don't speak unless...I have something to say." Her eyes narrowed. "If I didn't like you, Donnic, you'd know. Believe me."

Donnic's face relaxed, and the bastard even managed a smug grin. "I'm glad we cleared that up, guardswoman."

"Now, about this message?" Aveline tried to keep her voice on an even keel and her eyes up, even though her patrolmate was hardly difficult to look upon. She mostly succeeded, too.

The man shrugged. "He just said he wanted to see you in his office, as soon as you were finished eating." Donnic gave her another grin. "But I'm glad we got a chance to talk. I'll see you tonight, hey?"

Aveline's mouth opened, but before she could say anything else, Donnic turned and walked away, in the opposite direction of Captain Jeven's office. She tried to turn and go about her own course, but this time she mainly failed, until Donnic's well-built form disappeared through a doorway. A snicker sounded from closer than Aveline liked. She flinched and caught sight of Brennan, whose eyes glinted with mischief. The orange-haired guardswoman growled audibly. "Not. One. Word." Her own eyes glinted with the righteous fury that had seen the ruin of many a bandit, and Aveline was satisfied when the other guardswoman retreated.

Aveline marched toward the captain's office with purpose. When she'd first gotten accepted into the city guard, she was surprised to find that Captain Ewald had been replaced. Ewald was a young man, even younger than Aveline, if she'd had to guess, and he'd seemed perfectly fit when she'd seen him in the Gallows the previous year. Yet gossip among the guard informed her that he'd turned up dead in a dockside alleyway, and Jeven had been elevated in his place. She'd had cause already to suspect the man's fidelity to the law, but it was not her place to question, at least not without firmer proof than she'd seen thus far.

"Come in," came the answer to three hard raps on the door. "It's open."

The guardswoman marched into the office, taking care to shut the door behind her, and stood-to behind the vacant chair in front of the captain's desk. "You wanted to see me, Captain?" She kept her eyes fixed a half-foot above the man's greying hair, though she caught sight of several sheaves of parchment in the periphery of her vision.

A laboured sigh sounded from behind the desk. "Sit down, guardswoman." She did so, crisply, and sat without making a sound while Jeven shuffled papers around for a good minute. He worked until he'd made two stacks, with a single blank parchment in between. "You've been with the guard for seven months, now."

"Six months and twenty-four days, Captain." She could give him to the hour, but even Aveline thought that might be taking it a bit too far.

Jeven hesitated for a moment. "Right," he said. "Recruits are taken off of scrutiny after three months, which you know," he went on. "You might also know that three months after scrutiny ends, there's supposed to be a review...to see how you're getting on."

Aveline inclined her head for a heartbeat, but kept her eyes focused at the creases in Captain Jeven's forehead. "I am aware, Captain." She'd been expecting this, and hadn't been impressed when her six months had passed unnoticed.

Jeven dabbed a quill into an inkpot, and began making scratches in the virgin parchment. "You come from Ferelden, yes?" Another nod moved him along. "You claim you were a lieutenant in the royal army there."

"I do not claim it, serah," the guardswoman stated. "It's what I was."

Jeven's eyes narrowed slightly, and Aveline spied the bags beneath them. She'd never heard of him leading a patrol, so she couldn't think what would have him lacking sleep, but the guardswoman held her peace. "So it seems," he admitted, if a bit grudgingly. "We've just received a letter of concrit from Denerim, asserting an Aveline Vallen who served as a lieutenant in Denerim's regiment. You match the rough description of the letter well enough."

Aveline's brows knitted. "Is my identity in question, Captain?"

"No, guardswoman," Jeven assured her. "But your credentials...they were in some doubt, given the circumstances of your arrival. Surely you can understand our skepticism."

The woman nodded again. She had to concede that arriving with a sword in hand from a country at war was hardly a guarantee of experience. "Have your doubts been assuaged, serah?"

The captain made a few more notes on his parchment. "For the greater part," he affirmed. "Now, we get down to the business of your place, here." Ice threatened to flood Aveline's intestines, but she kept her expression as steady as iron. "How do you feel you're getting on? With your fellow guards?"

"I'm still alive, thanks to a fair few of them," the guardswoman stated. "As more than a couple are, thanks to me." There was no hint of boast in her tone, despite the pride she took in her own skill. "I should think that they would acknowledge the same."

Jeven grumbled, made a few more scratches, and then looked through one of the stacks of papers. If she cared to look, Aveline was fairly certain she'd recognise her own handwriting on some of them. "I'll be honest with you, guardswoman," the captain allowed, throwing a glance her way. "You've impressed quite a few of your peers, and Guard-Lieutenant DuCesne has put your name forward for consideration."

The ice in her stomach melted, and Aveline's brow rose. "Consideration for what, if I might ask?" After a heartbeat, she added, "Captain?"

"Consideration to receive the rank of Guard-Lieutenant, yourself." The man found the parchment he was searching for, and slid it across the desk toward her. "Here's DuCesne's nomination."

Aveline's mouth dried out. "Serah...aren't those supposed to be confidential?"

Jeven merely looked at her for a long moment, and then grunted. "Of course they are. But this concerns you directly. Aren't you at least curious as to why DuCesne wants you?"

"I am, serah," Aveline admitted. "But he meant that report for your eyes, not mine," she pointed out. "If the guard-lieutenant wants to confide in me, I'll leave that decision to him." And though she was tempted, more than she thought she'd be, the guardswoman managed to keep her eyes up.

After a few seconds, Jeven reclaimed the parchment and replaced it on its pile. "Suit yourself," he said with a greasy chuckle, and the mood in the room seemed to lighten in a way that made the guardswoman's skin crawl. "It would mean an increase in pay and private quarters in the Viscount's Keep, along with...other privileges."

Aveline swallowed. "What sorts of privileges might those be, Captain?" She did her best to keep her face as blank as a new-made canvas.

Jeven evidently took that for interest. "Oh, there's all kinds. You know we're not knights, like the bloody templars. You'll get to know the cream of Hightown, accompany the viscount to city functions, and have access to certain...luxuries that might not normally fall into the hands of an ordinary guard."

So far, the guardswoman hadn't heard anything remotely tempting. "And what would my responsibilities be, Captain?"

At her question, the dreamlike quality of Jeven's expression dimmed. "You'll take control of organizing the patrols for a section of the city. For the next half-year, the Foundry District would be your responsibility." The man sat back, lacing his fingers together. "Of course, you'd have a complement of guards under your command, and you'd have to ensure their morale and discipline. Nothing beyond what you've experienced in Ferelden, I'm sure." When his comment went unresponded to, Jeven's head tilted slightly. "So? Do you want the commission or not?"

Of course she did, but she couldn't come right out and say it. "It would...be an honour, Captain," Aveline replied after a couple of breaths. "But...serah, I've been here under a year. There are plenty of guards who've seen their fifth winter in the barracks."

"But none of them made Lowtown safe to walk through in broad daylight," Jeven countered. "Well...safer than walking through it at night, anyway."

Flattered as she was by the praise, something in Jeven's tone put Aveline off. "I had no role in deciding the focus on Lowtown, Captain. I was just one of many working to restore order."

The man considered her for a long moment. "Is that a rejection, then?" The sudden amiability evaporated.

"No, serah," Aveline answered. "Consider it...a delay. I believe my lack of seniority would impact discipline negatively." She blinked, nearly choking on the words, but forced them out anyway. "If you still think me worthy in a year, I would be delighted to accept." After another breath, she amended, "Captain."

A long pause ensued, during which Jeven's expression cooled significantly. Just when the guardswoman thought to ask to be dismissed, however, the captain made a few more marks on the parchment and set it aside. "There is another matter," he grunted, shuffling a few more papers until he found what he was looking for. "You came to me highly recommended by Meeran. Now I have another Fereldan who's taken a stint in the Red Iron and wants to get some work on the city's bill." Surprise must have shown on Aveline's features, for Jeven grunted. "I take it you might know the man?"

Aveline nodded. "If his name's Carver Hawke, I just might, Captain."

"That's the man. You spent half a year with him, I'm told. I'd like to know your impression." The man leaned forward, but he didn't offer to show her Carver's application. He was evidently capable of learning.

"Fortune brought us together, during the Blight." She hated to think of it, for she couldn't keep herself from seeing the black tendrils beneath Wesley's skin, nor the blood on Carver's hands from when he gave the templar a quick end. "I and my husband crossed paths with him and his family as we both fled Lothering. He'd been in Ostagar, but we hadn't been properly introduced."

"I wasn't aware that you were married, guardswoman," Jeven commented.

Aveline's jaw threatened to break in half, but she collected herself with a breath. "I'm not," she admitted. "Not anymore. The day I met Carver was the day my husband died...from the darkspawn taint." And from his own dagger, in Carver's hands. She didn't mention that, but something drove her to bring up Cethlenn's death. "He also lost his sister in a skirmish with an ogre."

The captain whistled. "You two fought off an ogre?" He was equal parts incredulous and impressed.

Her lips parted, a breath away from mentioning Bethany, but something stayed her tongue. "His sister helped," she said, evasively. "Before she died." It wasn't a lie, except by omission, and Aveline could deal with her conscience about it later.

Captain Jeven made a thoughtful noise, stroking a finger over his stubbly chin. "He's a younger lad, so he can't have been an officer. How did he survive the battle?"

The guardswoman grimaced. "His regiment wasn't engaged in the fighting, at least not that night. He says he fought before, and from the skills he's shown, I don't doubt his ability. But..."

The captain cottoned on to her notion straightaway. "But he cut and ran from the army?"

"Yes, serah, he did." Her voice grew tighter as she spoke; she'd come to understand his treatment of Wesley, and she even accepted the mercy in it, even if it shouldn't have been his to give. But Aveline could never forgive him for breaking a sworn oath. "I survived the battle," she pointed out. "My king ordered me back, and when he died, my bonds went with him. But Carver's word was with his bann, and to Teyrn Loghain."

The man cocked a brow at her. It was much less attractive on his face than it was on Donnic's. "Yet Teyrn Loghain's nothing but ashes, now, if the minstrels from the South are credible. Slaughtered by the Champion of Redcliffe."

Aveline's nostrils flared. "That doesn't change the fact that Carver broke his word, and ran off with his family." She shook her head. "You wanted my opinion, Captain. Here it is: Carver Hawke is a hell of a fighter. In the Red Iron, I saw him grow into one of the best swordsmen I've ever seen, and he's got more years to grow. But," she cautioned, "he takes orders only reluctantly. He's quick to anger and slow to calm, and the only life he values is that of his kin."

Jeven ruminated on the guardswoman's words for a few moments. "Do you believe him...corruptible?"

Aveline's brows knitted again. "I would not say that," she admitted, and saw something change in the captain's face that didn't sit well with her. "But he's not loyal to authority. I could trust him to have my back in a fight, or to return a coin purse, but I don't think I could ever trust that he'd follow my orders."

The captain grunted. "That is your assessment, then?"

"It is," Aveline affirmed. If she felt a small pang of guilt that she might be denying Carver an opportunity, it was swamped by the knowledge that she'd spoken the truth...and that it wasn't her decision to make. "Will that be all, Captain?"

He shrugged. "Unless you can think of anything else that needs my attention." When Aveline shook her head, he nodded to the door. "Dismissed. Close up on your way out, guardswoman."

Aveline rose and crossed her arms to her chest, bowing in a tight salute. She made certain the captain's office door was secure when she left, and then she paused to consider her options. Some of her informants in Lowtown had her half-convinced of some trouble brewing on a route into the Vimmark Mountains. The path had been cleared for weeks, and she'd seen that the roster for that night had Brennan running a single patrol, but if Aveline's information was correct...

If she took some initiative, she might keep Jeven's interest in her, possibly repair any damage she'd done to Carver's reputation, and maybe earn him some coin in the process. With that in mind, Aveline mounted the stairs out of the guards' barracks. She still had a few hours before her patrol with Donnic, and if she hurried, she could gather up the Hawke siblings and sweep through the path enough to satisfy her own curiosity.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of Gamlen's hole-in-the-wall in Lowtown. Splinters shook from the door when she knocked, but a familiar bark sounded from behind it, and Aveline's effort was rewarded when Leandra appeared in the doorway.

"Aveline," the older woman breathed. "What a pleasant surprise! Do come in!" Leandra swept aside, gesturing for the guardswoman's entrance.

Gamlen sneered from a corner. "I do have a reputation to maintain, you know," he grumbled. "Don't want people thinking I'm weaseling to the Keep."

Aveline ignored the surly man, instead turning to Bethany. "Is your brother in?"

"He's resting," the mage replied, looking up from a cramped writing desk. She had her crimson staff with her, but Aveline was amused to see that she'd also forsaken all other hints of red.

"Oh, dear, do sit down and have some tea," Leandra pleaded. "I'll go put a kettle on."

"No," Aveline interjected. "I'm sorry to barge in like this, mistress, but I have an...opportunity that your children might want to take advantage of. Time is of the essence, however."

Leandra deflated slightly, but Bethany rose from her seat, offering her mother a placating gesture. "We need all the help we can get, Aveline," the younger Hawke said. "I'll get Carver." She disappeared into one of the hovel's three rooms, but she wasn't long in returning, with her twin in tow.

Unlike his sister and Aveline, Carver still wore swatches of his old uniform, and the red-tinged blade was already strapped to his back. "What've you got for us?" His face was guarded, but Aveline couldn't really blame him for that.

"Rumours of raiders out on the Sundermount path," the guardswoman answered. "If it's nothing, I don't want to take up the guards' time with it, but if there's something there, we could wind up saving someone's life."

The boy barked a laugh. "Am I still a sword-for-charity, now?"

Aveline sighed, feeling vindicated in her earlier appraisal. "If we find bandits, there's sure to be coin in it, for saving a guard if nothing else. Plus it'll put your application in good standing."

She saw Carver's eyes widen, but rather than question how she might've known about his attempt at joining the city guard, he merely nodded and turned to Bethany. "What do you think, sister?"

"If we can help one of Aveline's colleagues _and_ keep the templars away, I'm happy to follow her," Bethany affirmed. She'd already taken up her staff, and Barcus' stump of a tail wagged in his excitement. "And we have business near Sundermount," she added, in low tones.

Carver gave Aveline a significant look, and she remembered the promise that the Witch of the Wilds had pulled from them, which they had yet to fulfill. "It may need to wait," she warned them. "If we run into trouble, we'll have to report back without delay."

The other warrior nodded. "Well, at least it won't be a wasted trip, either way." He gave a shrug. "We'll do it."

"Follow me, then," the guardswoman instructed. "We haven't much time."


	8. Of Things Not Lost

Author's note: Thanks once again to the ever-awesome clafount, whose beta-reading skills and encouragement have helped this story immeasurably.

* * *

"You _promised_, Keeper." Merril's voice shook with the effort of balancing her disappointment, anger, and fear. "You said you'd help me find my way!"

The elder elf looked up from the ancient tome which she'd been studying. "And I intend to, _da'len_, but you must be patient." The Keeper glanced over the valley which their clan had inhabited for more than a twelvemonth. "The _ara'vhen_ will come, soon. They must."

The First swallowed, feeling the great weight of the shard in her pocket. "And then you will help me find what I seek?"

A heartbeat passed, and Marethari's green-gold eyes glittered inscrutably. "I will help you," she vowed. "To find your way."

The reply was expected, but no less galling for that. "But you thought they should've already come! Our halla have nearly picked the valley clean of grass, and Isyla says they're getting restless."

Marethari's eyes flashed once more. "They will come," she affirmed. "_Asha'bellanar_ has given them a task, and they cannot but see it completed." She drew a deliberate breath. "Some few nights ago, I dreamed that the _ara'vhen_ drew near, but then fortune pulled them away. They may tarry, but they will return." The Keeper looked away again.

Merrill admired the few hints of red still left in her mentor's hair, before blinking the thought away as foolish. She returned to her own work, memorising a poem about _Geldauran_, one of the Forgotten Ones. Forgotten by all but the Keepers and Firsts, that is. It was littered with words she did not recognise, but after she had learnt it by heart, the First would scour all of the lore she'd collected to try and fit them into her patchwork of the language. After a time of reading, however, the younger woman's frustration won out over her diligence."How much longer will we wait, Keeper?"

"As long as we must, _da'len_," the elder woman answered. "As long as Arlathan sleeps, we cannot forsake our oaths." Marethari flipped a few pages of her old, worn codex. "And until the day the _ara'vhen_ arrive, you shall spend a few hours each evening at the _vir'shiral_, practicing the Rite for the Departed."

Merrill's eyes narrowed. "I know the Rite as well as I know my own name, Keeper. Such practice isn't necessary." Another pair of heartbeats passed, and the First felt her resolve crumble beneath the Keeper's gaze. In the fading light of evening, Marethari's eyes were aglow with the last rays of the sun.

"I've no doubt of your knowledge, _da'len_," Marethari assured her. "Yet this is an old place, steeped in lore and magic from the days of Arlathan and throughout the ages. The _vir'shiral_ will need to grow accustomed to your own magic in order to ensure the success of the Rite."

Merrill's heart skipped a beat. "So...I'm to climb Sundermount this very night?"

The Keeper nodded, slowly. "Only partway, to where the Old Ones sleep, but yes. The magic of the ritual must be settled in advance of _Asha'bellanar's_ delivery."

"But...I didn't think the Rite had any magic to it anymore." The younger elf suddenly felt her stomach try to backflip. "Unless..." Unless _Asha'bellanar_ was really an Old One, in need of the ceremony. The First could hardly contain her curiosity at that possibility.

Marethari snapped her book closed. "Beware of idle guessing, _da'len_," she cautioned. "The path of wisdom has many tributaries which can lead you farther from your goal, and not every one of these is worth pursuing."

The First felt her ears droop slightly. Her own lips silently formed the words of the reprimand as it was spoken by her elder. "Yes, Keeper," she intoned once Marethari's recitation was complete, feeling twelve winters old again for the space of a breath. That was the age she'd first heard the rebuke, and though it sometimes seemed she couldn't go a week without hearing it repeated, every time it made her feel foolish. "Shall I go now?"

An incline of the Keeper's head dismissed her, but the woman spoke up just as the First regained her feet. "Promise me that you won't stray farther up the mountain path beyond the _vir'shiral_, Merril." Those glowing eyes bore directly into the First's spirit. "Sundermount has shadows which are dangerous even for the _El'vhen_."

"I..." For an instant, a spark of rebelliousness threatened to take flame within Merrill's breast, but she swallowed the urge to voice a rebuke. The mountain's secrets would doubtless be valuable, but the First had ample reason to heed her Keeper's warning."_Ma nuvenin,_ Keeper."

"_Ma serannas_, _da'len_." The Keeper blessed her with a relieved smile. With another nod, Marethari rose to stand, and descended the trail to the valley and her people.

Leaving Merrill alone, with nothing but her staff and her shard to keep her company. The First should be grateful, she knew; despite camping in the shadow of Sundermount for more than a year, she hadn't been allowed to enter the _vir'shiral_-the burial place on the mountain where a few ancient elves were supposed to sleep. Being entrusted with the Rite for the Departed, and evidently on _Asha'bellanar's_ behalf, was a great honour which any elven mage would be proud of. Merrill put up the little codex with the lost poem, turning the opposite way, away from her Keeper and her clan. The weight of the book against her hip comforted her, and the challenge of the mysteries it held helped keep her focused.

But the First was frightened of the greater weight in her breast pocket. It was the only piece of the _El'uvian _she'd managed to bring with her across the Waking Sea, though she knew exactly where the rest of the mirror was, and she was intent on returning to Ferelden to claim it as soon as the Keeper gave her leave to do so. Merrill hoped that she could soon return to the familiar mountains and forests of her homeland, where the solitude was more a blessing than the curse it seemed to be becoming here. Whether Marethari admitted it or not, restoring one of the greatest artifacts of _El'vhen_ history would also restore honour to them, and perhaps even a bit of power they could use to protect themselves from the wrath of the _shem'len_. The shard was also her only memento of Tamlen, and she would not waste his death by ignoring the mirror he'd discovered, no matter how much risk that path entailed.

Sundermount also scared the First. It wasn't the dark, for Merrill could see nearly as well beneath a blanket of stars as by the light of day, and shadowed places had never bothered her. At least not until Tamlen had walked into the shadows of the _El'uvian_ and never returned. After that, the First's sleep became more troubled, and her resolve to preserve the People's greatness only grew. Nearly as soon as the clan had arrived at the foot of the mountain, Merrill began hearing strange whispers in her dreams, and now whenever she strayed too far up the mountain path she could hear the susurrus while awake as well. She hadn't dared admit her fears to the Keeper, for Marethari could be of no help in contending with any spirits which might be drawn by Merrill's desire or, _Dirth'am'en_ forbid, her pride. The only thing Merrill could hope to achieve by confiding thus in Marethari would be to have the hunters of the clan stalk her to an even more remote place and prepare her to meet _Falon'Din_.

Still, Merrill was an accomplished mage of the Dalish, and she'd faced spirits before. When she climbed far enough up the mountain this night, the First was not disappointed; the threads of magic weaved over Sundermount, and the Beyond was very close here, just out of reach in places...but all of that mystical energy seemed muted as the whisper caressed Merrill's spine. She paused a half-dozen paces to the gateway of the _vir'shiral_, collecting her courage-as well as a touch of her magic-before she strode purposefully into the midst of the cairns which held the remains of elven sleepers.

A half-familiar tingle passed over her, and Merrill knew that the very place itself was assessing her worthiness; she shuddered to think what might move from the shadows if she proved unfit to tread upon this sacred ground. After a breath, however, the probing magic settled down into the background currents of power which flowed throughout the mountain. Her heart slowing to a more normal pace, the First made her way to the altar, where even now a blue flame burnt dimly from a clay lantern. It had likely been burning for a thousand years, perhaps more, and would continue for that long again.

"_Hahren na melana sahlin_," Merrill breathed, looking from the altar to the breathtaking sight of the mountain range stretching out before them. "_Emma ir abelas_..." While she spoke, the First noticed that she could not hear the whispers anymore. That was intriguing, and if she thought it could be coincidence, the notion was proven wrong almost immediately after the last line of the Rite. "..._vir lath sa'vunin_." A chill passed over the _vir'shiral_, and though there was no wind, the blue flame guttered in its pot, threatening to extinguish. The First felt her chest constrict as the area dimmed, but after a moment the flame regained its strength.

_That was...most moving, child_. The voice was thick and strong, but very faint, as though she were hearing it from underwater.

Merrill spun around, her heart in her throat and her gnarled staff in her hands. "Show yourself!" She gulped a breath of air, looking from nook to cranny. "If that's you, Pol, I'll skin your ears for a necklace." The Alienage-born elf wasn't as _respectful_ of the First as much of the rest of her clan, which she normally didn't mind, as it meant he would look her in the eye whenever they spoke...but on occasion that familiarity could be unwelcome.

Silence met her threat, at least for a few breaths. Then a low rumble rose from the rocks. Merrill might have thought it an echo of thunder, but the night's sky was gloriously cloudless, and _Mythal's gift_ shone down upon the world as far as her eyes could see. Only after nearly a minute did the First realise that _something_ was laughing at her.

_Come to me_, the voice came, again. _I cannot reveal myself, but I dwell within the peak._

Merrill's ears pricked up, and she renewed the grip on her staff. The whisper was much stronger here, more present even than in her dreams, but there was no mistaking it, now. "Declare yourself, spirit, or begone." Another minute passed, and Merrill was almost convinced that her warning had thrown off her not-quite-welcome visitor. But then...

_I am a traveller, exiled from my home, just as you are._

That could only mean that it was bound to a physical artifact. Which meant, in its turn, that some powerful mage thought the spirit too dangerous to keep wandering the Earth and the Beyond unchecked. The First actually relaxed, then at least a little; she knew that she must watch herself and her words very carefully, but as long as she didn't approach the object of binding, there was nothing the spirit could do to harm her.

_I know what you seek_, the spirit said, unprompted. _And I know you have the power within you to achieve it._

"I don't," Merrill replied, and then hated herself for giving voice to her doubts. "I've tried everything..." Every bit of lore and every spell she knew. But still she could not cleanse the shard of its corruption, of the curse which came from _Banal'han_, and which took Tamlen from this world.

_Have you?_ Came the spirit's answer. _Are you certain there is no...other recourse upon which you might call?_

Before she could fall further into temptation, Merrill bit down on her tongue; her anxiety caused her to underestimate the force of her jaw, however, and she tasted a hint of the salted copper tang of her own blood.

_Yes_, the spirit growled. _There are many arts lost to the People, but one is ever within your grasp_.

"I...can't," the First breathed. _Esara'lin_, blood magic, wasn't forbidden amongst the People as it was amongst the _shem'len_, strictly speaking. But it was...problematic. There were no surviving elven accounts of the practice, leastwise to Merrill's knowledge, and so any Keeper who knew it had almost certainly learnt it from consorting with a spirit. Such conduct would put a clan at great risk, and occasionally such a Keeper was exiled...or worse.

_You can_, the spirit insisted. _You have but to come...and pay me a visit._

"No," Merrill insisted. "I...promised the Keeper that I wouldn't venture beyond the _vir'shiral_." More silence. The First realised that she'd crept up to the very edge of the graveyard, nearly onto the path to the mountain's peak. With a start, she took a few measured steps backward. When she turned to leave, though, another rumble sounded in her mind.

_Please...abide awhile_, the spirit pleaded. _Many is the year since I have had even this much company_.

She should ignore it, she knew-flee down the mountainside and beg the Keeper to move them on, to take her away from the temptation which took root even now deep within the First. But the Keeper would not budge, and Merrill's duty was to the elder woman, and to the clan that they shared. And the First had been instructed to return to this ground every evening until further notice, a task which would become immensely more difficult if she earned this spirit's ire. "Oh, _Sylaise_, guide my steps."

_I wish nothing of you this night, child, but your words_. The ethereal vibration was as close to reassuring as Merrill could imagine, coming from a bound one.

Slowly, reluctantly, Merrill turned back to the narrower path and looked up to the distant peak. "And I offer nothing," she warned. "The Keeper has promised to help me, when the time comes."

_Has she, now?_ Another chuckle. _And what time is that?_

"I cannot say," the First replied. It was true on at least two levels, so she shouldn't have to worry about angering the spirit by lying to it. Yet a bound spirit's wrath was worth courting, in order to keep _Asha'bellanar's _secrets. "Not too much longer, I hope."

_But does she...understand? Will she aid you in your task, or merely...do what she believes best, regardless of your wishes?_

It was Merrill who lapsed into silence, then. True, she'd gotten the Keeper's word, but only to 'help her find her way'. But the First had already found her path, and now she needed a more experienced hand to guide her down it. "The Keeper wouldn't do that to me," she said, as much to herself as to the spirit. "She..." Merrill nearly said that the Keeper loved her, but she stopped just short of it. "She respects our history, as any Keeper should."

_Then why does she wait?_ After another interval, the spirit continued. _Are you certain that your Keeper is not blind to the glories of your past, and the great potential of your future?_

Visions of Arlathan flitted through Merrill's imagination, almost unbidden. Before the _shem'len_ came, the whole of the continent had been inhabited by the People. They belonged to the land, as much as it belonged to them, and everyone was touched by the gift of magic. But then the _shem'len_ arrived from the North, and it wasn't long before the People had been cast about, their history and culture and magic all but destroyed. The Keepers worked now to preserve and protect what few artifacts remained, for the benefit of future generations. No one understood this better than Merrill.

_Look at what you've become. From the caretakers of the world, blessed of the Creators. Immortal. Wise. Strong._ Another long pause. _To ragged bandits, moving forever at the margins, forgotten and lost. Is the past what your Keeper wishes to regain...or does she simply seek to maintain the present?_

Merrill's denial caught in her throat, and she could not honestly voice the answer that she so wished to be true. "I...don't know," she said at last. "The mirror is shattered and tainted, but if it could only be cleansed and repaired..."

_I can help you in that quest, child. I, who saw the struggles of the People against their foes first-hand, know the power that they might again wield._

Years of wariness subdued the desire which pulled at the First's heart. "Even if I disbelieved the Keeper's word, I could not pay the price you might ask of me."

Another rumbling laugh. _I am already in this world,_ the spirit pointed out. _I have no need of seeing it...through a mortal's eyes._

"I...should go," Merrill breathed. "The Keeper will be waiting for me to fix her evening meal." Some instinct made her soften her departure, however. "I'll be back tomorrow, and the day after that."

_Go, then,_ the spirit hissed, not unkindly. _I shall be waiting_.

If the Keeper wondered why Merrill was so late in returning from the _vir'shiral_, or why she seemed so jumpy, the elder elf never spoke of it. The First proffered no explanation for the delay, either that night or any of those that followed. But after twenty-two evenings spent amongst the cairns, Merrill again asked for the Keeper's aid in cleansing her shard of its foulness, and again she was denied. After a heated argument, the Keeper all but admitted that she would never help Merrill reconstruct the _El'uvian_, and Marethari suggested that the First's visits to the _vir'shiral_ should cease.

That very night, overcome with frustration and anger, Merrill snuck up the mountain path well after the Keeper and much of the rest of the clan had gone to sleep. She thought only to converse, to air her misgivings to the spirit. In recent weeks, it had told her a bit of its own history, of how it had been summoned to help the People in their war against the Tevinter Imperium, but had been locked away after the battle was lost. It had asked nothing of her except that she listen, and return. This time, however, the spirit's voice became clear even at the gates of the _vir'shal_.

_Have you decided to accept my offer?_

Merrill stopped short, her heart pounding, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "I...have no choice," she hissed, through clenched teeth. As soon as the First realised that it was true, though, she instantly calmed herself. Her thoughts shifted from preventing a deal to making the terms as clear as possible. "I will not welcome you into me," she warned. "Nor will I release you from your bonds."

Moments passed without a reply, and Merrill was near to turning away again. _Very well_, the spirit conceded. She couldn't tell whether it was angry or merely resigned. _But I cannot give freely. You must bring me a suitable sacrifice. Blood for blood._

"Will not mine be enough, spirit?" The First tried to keep the dismay from her tone, but she felt a trickle of anxiety.

_No_, came the spirit's answer. _To teach you properly, I require life. One of your halla will do._

Indecision crept up Merrill's spine; she couldn't properly balance the weight of her task with that of the betrayal she was being asked to commit. The halla were sacred creatures, companions rather than chattel, and sacrificing one to a magic ritual was simply unthinkable. And yet...the life of a single halla, or a single elf for that matter, was as a wisp of air when compared to the full potential of restoring an _El'uvian_. "I...will do it," Merrill whispered, her cheeks growing wet.

_Tonight_, the spirit urged. _Now. You have not much time before your Keeper grows wary._

"_Mythal_, protect me," the First begged as she picked her way down the dark path. At its bottom, she turned right, toward the paddock where the halla bedded down each evening, under the watchful eye of Isyla. Merrill slunk through the deep shadows of the mountain, drawing closer to the watch-woman, whose ears twitched at the First's approach. Before Isyla could turn to investigate, however, Merrill cast a powerful sleeping spell over her. The First caught Isyla as she fell, laying the woman gently onto the soft ground, and begged _Ghi'lanna'in's _forgiveness with each step she took toward the elven goddess's children.

Merrill opened the gate slowly, and discovered a young halla standing there, already awake. It was barely past its milking, but old enough that its mother did not keep it close by as she slept. With shaking hands, the First gathered up the _ghi'da _into her arms and beat a retreat back to the mountain path. In her haste, she completely forgot to close the gate behind her, and gave thought to nothing but stalking up the mountain as quickly as possible. By some miracle, the First made it to the _vir'shiral_ without incident, and paused only for a breath before crossing onto the narrower path beyond it.

_Good_, the spirit rumbled, as she drew nearer to the summit. Her legs trembled when she entered the small cave at the very top of Sundermount, and saw the large, wooden idol to which the spirit had been bound. Before it sat a bowl of offering, and around it floated inexhaustible candles which bathed the chamber in an eerie glow. _Closer, child_, the voice called, vibrating through the very air.

Later, near dawn, Merrill emerged from the cave as though from a dream. Her hands were perfectly clean, but she could still feel the halla's blood on them, mixed with her own. The horror of what she'd done couldn't compete with the thrill of the new power within her veins, and she could hardly wait to put her lessons to use.

Until a figure emerged from a shadow, and caused the breath to flee from Merrill's lungs. "What have you done, _da'len_?" The Keeper's voice was small and strained, her face drawn. Those gold-green eyes bore more deeply into the First than they'd ever done before, and Merrill saw Marethari's expression morph from disbelief to horror. "You have dealt with a demon. How could you do such a thing?"

"I..." Merrill deflated, looking down at the Keeper's feet. "You left me no choice," she admitted, and her tears came again, unbidden. "You would not _help_ me." A tendril of anger returned, and she threw an angry glance at the elder elf. "You never believed in me!"

The horror on Marethari's face changed again, transforming into a rage so terrible that Merrill suddenly feared she might have to defend herself. "I have always believed in you, _da'len_," the Keeper insisted. "It is you who have stopped believing in me. Your folly has cost you my trust...and it has cost the clan our halla."

"What?!" With a shudder, Merrill understood her mistake.

"Isyla woke me in a panic not half an hour ago. She thinks she fell asleep at her post, and was only woken when a great terror spasmed through the herd," Marethari said. "They've all fled...all but one." The low light caught in her eyes, and they shone accusingly.

The First could hardly catch her breath. "_Ar'abelas_," she whimpered through her tears. "What...what can I do, Keeper?"

"Nothing," came Marethari's icy response. "You must do nothing more this day, _da'len_. And you must never return to the mountaintop, not even when the _ara'vhen _come." She motioned for Merrill to stand behind her, and once the First had done so, Marethari closed her eyes. The magical currents quickened about them, and with a loud _pop_, a barrier of raw power came into being at the mouth of the cave.

The Keeper led Merrill down the path, and though they said nothing between them, the First could feel further enchantments working over the land...traps and trials that not even an elf would dare to pass. Marethari erected a further barrier at the gates of the _vir'shiral_, and just beyond it, she caused a rockfall to block the easy path back down to the valley. Instead, they wended their way through a cavern, where the Keeper sowed further dangers for the unwary or the weak. All through this, though her heart was breaking, Merrill could offer no rebuke.

From then on, the Keeper tended her own meals, and kept her own council. Though none of the clan knew that the hallas' departure was her fault, Merrill found herself isolated even further from them by her guilt and grief. Even after she'd regained her will, and restored the small sliver of mirror in her possession, the Keeper could not forgive her transgression. She would have one final task, to escort the _ara'vhen_ to the _vir'shiral_ through the ordeals and barriers Marethari had erected, and then she would no longer be welcome amongst her clan. Until then, Merrill kept to herself as much as possible, ruminating on her actions and on all she hoped still to do.


	9. Sanguinus Drakonum

Author's note: As always, thanks go to the wonderful **clafount**for her awesome beta-reading skills. Sorry for the delay! Weekly updates should resume from here on out.

* * *

Even though he'd served with the Red Iron for a full year before, this was just Carver's third time in the captain's office. "Bet you're not as happy to see me as I am to see you," Meeran gruffed, leaning against his desk with his arms folded in front of him. The stained red mahogany matched the man's uniform almost perfectly.

"Honestly, serah?" Carver shrugged. "I'm glad to be back where I can be of use, and I'm looking forward to earning a bit of coin, but..."

"But you wanted a place a bit closer to the viscount's office," Meeran stated. "I wrote to Jeven, just like I promised I would. Sorry to hear that it didn't work out."

Carver swallowed, glancing from Captain Meeran to Gustav, one of his closer acquaintances. Mikkel and an unfamiliar person filled out the room. "I'm...sorry about what happened to Jeven, too." He knew that Meeran and the former guard captain were close. "And I hope the shit doesn't come sticking to you."

Meeran grunted a laugh. "That's my boy. I hear that your friend did well for herself, though. The other one that came over with you." The man's brow furrowed. "Aveline, her name was?"

The younger warrior nodded. "Viscount Dumar and his seneschal decided to make _her_ Captain of the Guard, so they could reduce the scandal, or so they say."

"Yet you and your sister've been back here for nigh on a month, now. The new captain wouldn't take you?" Meeran's head tilted, and Carver got an unexpected thought-he hoped he hadn't cocked something up enough that the captain was going to kick him out.

"Said that having too many Fereldans would diminish morale," Carver answered. "And...she told me she didn't trust me to follow her orders."

Meeran chuckled. "Always was a smart one, that." He shook his head. "Well, her loss is my gain." He uncrossed his arms, looking at each man gathered before him in turn. "You all wanna know why I've called you here, I suppose, and I reckon _you_ want to know why your sister wasn't invited." That last he directed to Carver, who nodded. "We got a contract from a merchant out of Orlais, name of Hubert," he informed them, pronouncing the name in the least-Orlesian manner possible. "Bastard runs a mining outfit in the Bone Pit."

Carver felt a chill settle over his two acquaintances, and even the unknown man stood up straighter. He'd heard of the Bone Pit, of course; in its way, it was the reason that the Tevinters had founded Kirkwall in the first place, to mine lyrium and other ores with slave labour. Yet the magisters in charge of the mine were said to be cruel without compare, and they supposedly sacrificed thousands of slaves over the years, which made the place dangerous.

Gustav spoke up. "What's he need with hired steel?" Though Carver wasn't a native, he had no greater wish to see if the folktales of the place were true than Gustav evidently did.

"The man's workers have up and disappeared, and everyone he sends to the mine to investigate doesn't come back," Meeran said. "Thing is, the bastard puts Fereldan refugees to work in them mines, and the word is that he doesn't treat 'em as good as an old pair of boots."

Comprehension, as well as a bit of anger, began to dawn within Carver. "So they might've just buggered off."

"Right," Meeran confirmed. "He thought so, which is why he sent doves out to find them. Now he's offered to pay us good and proper to find those doves...and the workers." His eyes settled on Carver. "And if the lads are just lazing about, or trying to shake Hubert down for better pay, you four'll do what needs doing to get 'em back to work."

Despite what Aveline seemed to think, Carver wasn't a traitor. But his first loyalty would always be to his family, and especially his twin sister. To do that, he'd need the coin and the friends to keep clear of the templars. If that meant scaring a few of his countrymen into doing their jobs, he could live with that. "We will," he confirmed.

Meeran's brow furrowed. "Good man," he commended. "And it looks like some introductions are in order." He inclined his head toward the mystery man, who duly stepped forward.

He had icy blue eyes and a grey beard which hugged his jaw closely, and when he spoke, it was with a clipped accent that Carver couldn't quite place. "Is this the boy you spoke of, Captain?" He wore a red cowl and the same trousers-and-chainmail getup as Bethany, and so Carver was almost certain that he was a mage.

"He is," Meeran affirmed. "Carver Hawke, I'd like you to meet Tobrius."

"Tobrius of Perivantium," the man amended, giving Carver a long look up and down. "Yes, I see it now."

A frown tugged at Carver's lips. "Should I know you?" He'd never even heard of Perivantium, wherever in the Void that was.

The older man shook his head, deliberately. "No, son," he replied, and smiled when he saw Carver bristle. "But I knew your father, Malcolm. He and I...were quite close." Whatever Carver had been expecting to find when Sergeant Halsten ordered him to Meeran's office, an apostate friend of his father's wasn't it. "I also knew your namesake," Tobrius went on.

Confusion bloomed over Carver's face like rashvine. "My...namesake?"

Tobrius inclined his head. "The man from whom you got your name," he explained, as though Carver were nine years old, instead of nineteen. "A templar by the name of Ser Maurevar Carver."

Confusion turned to shock, and then to incredulity, but before he could press further, Meeran cut in with a throat-clearing cough. "Good, now you know one another. Tobrius here will accompany you three to the Bone Pit." His glance cut into Mikkel. "And no sniveling, either! You fail me, and I'll show you what a curse looks like."

The two Kirkwallers grumbled, clearly unhappy, but Carver took charge. "We won't let you down, Captain," he assured the man.

"You'd better not," Meeran warned, but he gave the boy a roguish grin and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

The Red Iron had no horses, and Carver's squad had no coin to hire out a driver, even if they could find one willing to ferry them to the Bone Pit. So they all had to walk through the gates of Lowtown to the mines, as the slaves of old had done for nearly a thousand years. On the way, Mikkel and Gustav kept to themselves, whispering sullenly about their reservations. Tobrius seemed far less troubled, and his claims to knowledge interested Carver more than worries about what they might find at their destination.

"Where is Peri...wherever you said you were from," Carver inquired, setting his mouth in frustration.

"Perivantium," Tobrius corrected, sounding amused rather than annoyed. "It is a mid-sized city in the Imperium," he informed the younger man. "Perhaps thrice the size of Kirkwall, at least when I last set foot there, before you were born."

That gave Carver pause. "You're Tevinter?"

"So it appears," came Tobrius' response.

Suspicion settled into the back of Carver's mind. He knew hardly anything of the modern-day Tevinter Imperium, other than that it was not-so-secretly run by mages and had a heretical Divine. "I can't see my father keeping counsel with a Tevinter magistrate," he commented.

"Alas, I am no _magister_," Tobrius admitted, gently correcting Carver in the process. "Though I was apprenticed to one, once. As was Malcolm."

"I don't believe you," Carver said, and he didn't.

The young man's incredulity earned him a shrug. "There is much your father would not have told you, given your...differences."

Suspicion was well on the way to resentment. "You think he wouldn't trust me with his secrets because I'm not a mage, like he was?"

Tobrius put up a hand in submission. Now that they were beyond the city proper, he carried his red steel _walking stick_ firmly in the crook of his other arm. "I cannot speculate on my friend's method of childrearing, as we had become infrequent correspondents by then. But I have many letters dating from our time in the Imperium to the year before his death, in 9:27 Drakon."

Somehow, Carver didn't think the man's pronunciation of the current Age an accident. He didn't give an answer for a long moment, mulling his thoughts about. "Wait," he breathed. "If you got your letter a year before, how do you know he died?"

The Tevinter mage did not hesitate. "I received a short note from his eldest daughter, not too long after the fact. Kethlenn, her name is?"

"Cethlenn," Carver said, softening the first syllable until it resembled an 's'. He felt a small thrill at being able to correct the older man, for once. "She's...gone now, too," he admitted. "The Blight."

Tobrius paused a moment, at that. "You have my sympathies," he allowed. "From what Malcolm wrote of her, she showed great promise. As does your other sister. Bethany."

Carver found his suspicion fading, if only slightly. "You do seem to know an awful lot about my family," he had to admit. "But Father always claimed he came from Ferelden."

"And so he said to me, as well," Tobrius confirmed. "Yet the Imperium is no stranger to...talented wanderers, from Thedas."

It took a moment for Carver to recall that _Thedas_ was originally a Tevinter word, meant to refer to all of the lands outside of Imperial control. He'd learnt that by eavesdropping on a conversation between his father and his sisters, he realised. "Why didn't you and he stay on, and become magisters, then?"

Tobrius measured a breath. "That is a long story," he demurred. "Best shared after a successful adventure, I believe. In private." His ice eyes wandered to the other two men in their company; they seemed too jumpy to be paying too close attention, but Carver supposed it was better to be cautious. "Once we are returned to the barracks, I will show you my collection of letters, and even let you take one or two for yourself."

Another thought struck Carver. At this rate, he reckoned he'd be a scholar by the end of the month. "How come you didn't seek Bethany out? I thought you were supposed to practice in the cellar?"

Tobrius gave a noncommittal shrug. "I am well beyond the need for daily exercise to keep my magic sharp, and I find solitude much more conducive to learning." After another few steps, he went on. "As to your first question, I have read much of your sister in your father's occasional letters, but relatively little of you. I wished to see if you'd grown into your name."

"That's right," Carver reminded himself. "You say I was named after this...Ser Maurevar? Maurevar Carver?" He studied Tobrius' face more closely. "Who is he?"

"He was a templar," Tobrius informed the younger man. "Here in the Circle, in Kirkwall, where your father and I spent half a decade together. It was...different, then."

Suspicion fled in the face of shock. "Father was in the Circle with you? And he named me after a bloody _templar_?" Carver shook his head, unable to fathom it.

The Tevinter man chuckled. "As I said, it was different. The templars were different, certainly. Ser Maurevar was the best of them." Tobrius sighed, a bit wistfully. "He saw that your father was in love with your mother, and looked the other way when they ran off..."

The walk took more than an hour, which seemed to pass in no time at all, to Carver's surprise. He learnt more about his father in that hour than he had in fifteen years of living with the man; most of all, he learnt that Malcolm was _proud_ of having a non-magical child, and that he regretted having to spend nearly all of his time instructing his daughters to properly harness their talents. By the time the four men reached the Bone Pit, Tobrius had thoroughly convinced him of these things, and promised even more insights when they could speak more privily.

Almost immediately after the party entered the track-lain surface grounds of the mines, they were set upon by a band of thieves. Carver mistook them for workers, at first, until the men drew steel and issued a challenge. Though outnumbered three-to-one, the Red Iron men were brutally efficient, and they prevailed over the rabble without serious injury.

"Guess we know what happened to them doves Hubert sent out," Mikkel mumbled, eyeballing a pair of corpses which predated their arrival by several days.

Gustav tittered, still on-edge despite getting his daggers bloody. "No sign of Fereldans, though," he pointed out. "M-maybe we should head back to Lowtown. See if we can scrounge some up there."

Carver barked a laugh. "I didn't walk all this way just to turn tail and run back to Kirkwall." He had no intention of giving Hubert more of his countrymen to abuse, either, but he wasn't about to air that notion. "We'd better see what's scared them off, so they come back on their own." Though he was younger than all of them, something in his voice must have carried the day, for Gustav and Mikkel reluctantly agreed to follow him and Tobrius into the mines proper.

The first thing any of them noticed was that the air in the cave was warmer than the air outside, and it only grew warmer the farther they descended into the mountain. The two Kirkwallers grew jumpier with every step, and Carver figured they would've fled for certain if Tobrius hadn't been bringing up the rear. Without warning, a section of wall collapsed close to Mikkel, and the man's leg was caught in the rockfall. He didn't spend too long in agony, however, for a huge lizard appeared in the gap in the wall and spit orange flame over the mercenary's head and torso.

Gustav cried out. "Maker help me!"

Carver gave the man little thought; he readied his blade just in time to decapitate the beast before it could repeat the trick it had played on Mikkel. Together, he and Tobrius dealt with two more of the creatures, and then the Fereldan realised that they stood alone. "That bloody coward," Carver growled. "To think, I used to look up to him."

"To run from a dragon is not normally considered cowardice," Tobrius ventured. "Though these are mere pups, their presence suggests that a more mature one may lie deeper in the stone."

The warrior's mouth ran dry, and a part of him reconsidered taking Gustav's example. "That must be what scared the workers off, then."

"If indeed they were frightened away," Tobrius pointed out, gesturing to the charred top half of their former comrade. "I imagine by your expression that you wish to see the task completed?"

"I do," Carver admitted, and as he said the words he knew them to be true. "Do you think we can? Just the two of us?"

The mage drew up to his full height, planting his staff firmly in the rock. "I believe so," he allowed. "Yet it may require me to call upon arts that you would not wish to see."

It took Carver a moment to work out the man's implication, but when he did so, his grip redoubled on his sword. "You're a blood mage," the warrior stated, baldly.

"I am," Tobrius admitted. "As was your own father," he hastened to add, quickly. "Before you deny, you must understand that you have been...misinformed, about the art's potency and its source."

Carver's mouth worked for nearly thirty seconds before he could produce a sound. "I know where it comes from," he claimed. "My father did not consort with demons!"

"And neither have I," the mage countered. He did not yell, like Carver had, but his tone grew just a bit sharper.

The point of Carver's greatblade lowered a fraction of a centimetre. "How did you learn blood magic, then?"

Tobrius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How does any mage learn any magical talent?" There was a challenge in his eyes when they fell upon the warrior again, a challenge for Carver to consider his words carefully. "I learnt through study and practice from one who'd learnt before me, with Malcolm at my side."

"So your teachers consorted with demons, then?" Carver managed a chuckle, even if he felt like crying. To learn that his father was a blood mage, after learning so many good things about the man, was nearly enough to break the warrior's heart.

"You misunderstand," Tobrius alleged. "In the Imperium, the art is a closely-guarded secret, as it is here. But in Thedas, there are many fewer ways of apprehending it. Your Chantry has rendered learning the art by any means _other_ than dealing with creatures of the Fade all but impossible, so it is no wonder that you believe that the sole source."

The way the man spoke of blood magic as _the art_ was unsettling, but Carver had to admit that his words made some sense. "You say you and my father learnt it in Tevinter?"

"From our magister," Tobrius confirmed. "Like any magic, it can be used for great evil...but that is not necessarily the case. Much of what you think of as blood magic, such as mind-control or raising fields of corpses, are really symptoms of demonic possession...which is no more a danger for me than it is for your sister." The mention of Bethany threw Carver enough that the mage pressed on. "The art can also be wielded to good intent," he insisted. "And it may become necessary, either to bring down this dragon, or to escape with our lives, should it prove more than an adolescent."

The warrior still hesitated, balancing upon a knife-edge. At last, his stubbornness won out; he'd come into the mines determined to finish his job, and he would see it through, no matter what it took. After a long moment, he put up his sword. "Alright," Carver allowed. "But if I feel you worming around in my head, I will cut you down," he warned.

"I will not give you cause to try," Tobrius vowed, and he gestured for the warrior to lead on.

More dragonlings confronted them periodically as they moved through the mine's caverns, and more than once Carver bore witness to the mage calling up his own blood to boost the power of his spells. The sight of him drawing the creatures' blood back into himself to replenish what was lost was almost too much for the warrior, but he managed to swallow his disgust.

Luck was with them, of a sort. Shortly after they ran into a wild-eyed Fereldan survivor who fled at their instruction, Carver and Tobrius emerged into the open air. The raised plateau also held their prize-an actual dragon, though fairly young and still new to wing. The ensuing fight was more difficult than any Carver could remember, even counting the escape from Lothering, but in the end the dragon lay dead and he stood proudly beside the man his father once called a friend.

Exultant in victory, Carver was taken aback at the thoughtfulness of Tobrius' expression. "I have...a thought," the Tevinter mage admitted, deliberately pronouncing each syllable.

"Eh?" The warrior's brow drew down, adrenaline and exhaustion mingling to make him suspicious once more. "What about?"

"A theory I have read scantly of," Tobrius began. "Though I'd never had the opportunity to put it to practice...before now." His icy eyes slid from the dragon's ruined neck to Carver's face. "How would you like to bridge the divide between yourself and your father, Carver Hawke?"

Carver would've swallowed, if his mouth hadn't run dry. "What do you mean?"

"Magic as we know it comes from the Fade," Tobrius explained. "Mages draw their mana through the Veil. It is this which makes us more visible to demons and spirits."

The warrior sighed. "Your point being?"

"In the Imperium of old, dragons were worshipped as the source of magic, its very fount," Tobrius went on, ignoring Carver's interruption. "They are doubtless fascinating creatures, whose blood holds many intriguing properties. It is like lyrium," he mused. "No-it is like the Fade itself."

"Get to the bloody point already," Carver growled.

The mage blessed him with a grin. "I shall, then," he promised. "Blood magic works entirely differently to the sort of magic I explained above...instead of channeling mana from the Fade, blood-life-itself is used as fuel. In mages, such extra energy combines to make spells much more powerful than spells fueled by either source alone." His eyes traced Carver up and down. "It is assumed by nearly everyone that only a mage can learn the art, but I have heard rumours that this is not so."

The warrior's brow tensed. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" He spoke only in a whisper, unable to believe his ears.

Tobrius shrugged. "I believe I can teach you the art," he informed Carver. "Or at least a version of it. And I believe that dragon's blood holds the key."

"So you want to turn me into a mage? Into a maleficar?" Carver was surprised at how casual he sounded, as though he still couldn't really grasp what was being offered.

"I wish to give you power, young Carver," Tobrius admitted. "Power over your own blood, and the blood of your enemies. You may never be able to manipulate the elements as your sister does, but in time even those skills might be developed. I tell you now that I wish nothing in return; the success of the trial will be reward enough for my efforts."

Carver was at a loss. He'd spent his entire life resenting magic, or at least resenting his sisters for monopolising their father's time and attention...but he'd also secretly yearned for those talents, even as Bethany wished so badly to be rid of them. "No demons?" His voice shook.

The mage inclined his head. "No demons, Carver," he said. "I swear it upon the love I bear your father."

Carver looked the man in the eye, temptation slowly winning out over distress. "What should I do?"

In the small hours of the next morning, Tobrius returned to the barracks, with Carver hanging off his arm, hardly conscious. He didn't remember getting lain gently down on his bed, nor was he aware of the three days which passes afterward, under Tobrius' and Bethany's careful eye. When the warrior finally woke, however, he felt a power coursing through his veins unlike any he'd ever imagined.

He did not speak of what passed on that plateau after the dragon had been put to rest, not even to his sister. Meeran was so impressed with Tobrius' report that he used Gustav and Mikkel's portion of Hubert's fee to commission a new set of armour and a sword. The blade was red steel, of Tevinter design at Tobrius' suggestion, and the mage dubbed it _the Blade of the Archon_. The armour was fine plate, silver, except for the silhouette of a blood-red dragon emblazoned across the breastplate, with its mirror along the back. The men of the Red Iron called it his _Dragon Armour_, but in the privacy of his mind, Carver thought of the piece as _Blood Dragon Armour_. The boost in prestige was as nothing when compared to the gift the dragon's blood had given the warrior, however. In spare moments, Tobrius secretly instructed the younger man in his newly-won talents, and in the course of months he was well on the way to mastering them. It felt odd to be in a place where nearly everyone knew that his sister had magic, and even odder to know that he had to keep a secret on his own behalf.


	10. Wench's Folly

Author's note: Thanks again to my awesome beta-reader, **clafount**, for her dedication to this story. You should go check out her stories!

* * *

Seven days. Seven bloody, awful, glorious, sinful, stressful, amazing days of tacking into the Amaranthine Ocean, courting the very edge of the world. Casavir had done his job well, and even though the bastards aboard the _Siren's Call_ were the most superstitious shits this side of the Donarks, not a one had threatened mutiny at Captain Isabela's plan to outrun the dreadnaught by going into the open seas. The Qunari ships were frightfully fast, built low enough to cut through the water like a blade, but Isabela knew they never carried enough supplies for long voyages. Accordingly, the Rivaini pirate had known that her only chance of outrunning her pursuers was to head for the deep blue waters...which no human had successfully crossed. Of course, Isabela hadn't provisioned the _Call_ for a long voyage, either. By the third day of rollicking waves full of fish and no nets to catch them, even Casavir had trouble keeping order, what with the dwindling barrels of food and fresh water.

"Land ho!" Bright-eyes called from his crow's nest. He was a cocky young elf from Denerim she'd picked up three years before; he called himself 'Brand', after the nickname for casteless dwarves, since Alienage elves seemed their equals. But within a week onboard, his keen elven vision got him a new moniker. "Estwatch for certain, Captain!"

Isabela nodded crisply and turned to address her crew. "Prepare the rigging and anchor! We'll dock in Skrim's Harbour to load up, and then set a course straight for Denerim!" That was where Castillon was waiting, along with half of the Felicisima Armada; if she didn't make the drop, they'd never stop combing every cove and cranny for her ship. "Bloody fucking slaver," she muttered to herself, so that none but Casavir could hear her.

"I hear Hayder's wagered that we don't show," he let slip, in Antivan. A pidgin of Antivan, Rivaini, and the King's Tongue glued the crew together, but both the first mate and the captain were fluent enough in each to speak at their leisure.

Isabela grinned at that, leaning heavily against the bannister while her first mate steered the _Siren's Call_ toward the port-town where they hoped to take a few hours' refuge. "I'll bet he just wants to dance with me, the poor boy." Her chin still held a nick from the large flatblade that Hayder called his _razor_, but she'd given his shoulder a puckering wound from her right-hand dagger, _Heartbreaker_. "Velasco and Castillon both _knew_ my terms..."

Casavir merely grunted; it was a conversation they'd had many times over the last year. Almost exactly a year before, her ship had been in nearly the same stretch of water, on the other side of Estwatch. She'd taken a sweet job from Castillon, or so she'd thought-escorting one of his merchant vessels overladen with goods from Denerim. Since the capitol city of Ferelden was under threat of the Blight, and run by the criminally incompetent Teyrn Howe and nug-humpingly paranoid Teyrn Loghain besides, it was safe to assume that none of the cargo was strictly legal. Later she'd laugh at the cliche that it had been too sweet to savour, but that was how it had felt at the time. Getting half of the profits from delivery of the vessel, along with all of the coin from her own cargo, wasn't an opportunity that any pirate captain could easily dismiss. And Isabela was _far_ from being just any pirate captain.

The memory was irresistible as Estwatch's Eastern shores came into clearer relief. Then, it had been the island's Western shoreline where the trouble started. Curiosity and suspicion were twin weapons just as sharp as _Heartbreaker_ and _Backstabber_, and they both got the better of her halfway to Rialto.

* * *

"Do you think Captain Delgado would mind overmuch if I wanted to take a peek?" Velasco had explicitly told her that her job was _solely escort_, and he'd implied that Castillon would be terribly annoyed at her if she annoyed Delgado. The barnacle couldn't've given her a bigger temptation to make a nuisance of herself if he'd _tried_.

Casavir didn't even bother following her gaze to the ship. "I recommend against it, Captain," he intoned, as he'd done every day for a week, now.

But the temptation was just too much. If she delayed any longer, they'd be in Rialto; her hold would be emptied and her purse would be filled, but her curiosity would be left wanting. "I wonder what's so special about it..." Isabela mused, a bit of the magpie entering her voice. Then a shade of green caught her eye, over the other ship's prow. "Oy, Bright-eyes!" Her tone was all captain as she addressed the crow's nest. "We got land to starboard?"

"Aye, Captain," the elf retorted. "Estwatch!"

Isabela mouthed the word just as her ears picked it up, and her heart started fluttering. The island was ill-named, for if it was ever a watchpost, those days were long since over. Now it stood as an unofficial outpost of Llomeryn, where raiders gathered to trade cargo and tall-tales, and where unwary merchants were liable to get their holds fleeced by shady _inspectors_. Not even the Felicisima Armada could hold sway over Estwatch, at least not for long.

It was just the excuse she needed to skirt around to Delgado's starboard side and take a closer look. "Drop to half-sails!" She could hardly contain her excitement as the _Call_ started flagging behind the other ship. Delgado called his vessel the _Golden Stream_, but somehow, it never quite conjured the image of a river of coin in Isabela's mind. When the _Stream_ was two ship-lengths ahead of the _Call_, Isabela barked another order. "Hard to port, Casavir!" Though he was not three metres from her, she still reveled in the authority of her captain's voice.

"Aye, Captain," came the man's response. He sounded far less certain, but he spun the bottom of the wheel to the port side, which had the effect of turning the _Siren's Call_ to the right.

" Full sail! Step on it, you lanky lobster-tails!" The captain's heartbeat quickened as the quarter-deck shifted beneath the gentle force of the win d; feeling her boat speed up was the fourth-best sensation Isabela could think of. At full sail, it took the _Call_ hardly any time at all to cross behind the _Stream _and catch up the distance lost.

When Isabela crossed to the port side of the quarter-deck, she came within shouting distance of Delgado. "What are you after?!" The man's yell was robbed of its force by the distance, but the Rivaini thought she could detect an undercurrent of annoyance, with a trace of nerves beneath it.

That roused her suspicion. "Get closer," she snapped at Casavir, and threw a glance up to the crow's nest. "Take a look through the port-holes," she called, though not loudly enough for Delgado to hear; Brand's ears were even sharper than his eyes, and she trusted the elf to pick up her meaning. Finally, Isabela turned to Delgado. "My job!" She shot back. "I'm known at Estwatch, and you're not likely to get boarded if the _Call's _seen first!"

It was a lie, of course; the sight of her ship was as likely to get them all run through with a rusty scimitar as it was to save Delgado's precious cargo, but the Antivan wouldn't have known that. The only reason Castillon could have for getting Isabela to escort the man was that his timbers were still green...she'd certainly never heard of him before Velasco came to her with Castillon's offer. But he seemed to accept Isabela's reasoning, since his answer wasn't loud enough to hear over the wind.

Brand's call was a different story, though. "There's people, captain! In the hold!"

The morning sun must have given the elf enough light to see them by. Isabela's gut suddenly clenched, memories of the Venefication Sea echoing in her thoughts. "Those _bastards_," she hissed.

Casavir coughed. "It...could just be refugees," he reasoned. "We're not headed to Minrathous, after all."

Which was perfectly true. Yet the Imperium's reach still spread far and wide over Thedas. "Come alongside," she instructed him, taking a step toward the main deck. "Half-stations!" The sight of her command moving through the crew like a wave sent a satisfying chill across Isabela's spine. Her sailors milled about, readying their weapons even as they continued to work on the business of keeping the ship afloat. After a dozen heartbeats, the two ships were too close to risk giving any more commands, so the captain turned to her counterpart aboard the _Stream_.

"What are you doing?" The man ran a hand through his close-cropped beard. He wasn't close enough for Isabela to see the nerves in his eyes, but she could already imagine them well enough.

"Honestly?" The Rivaini tilted her head and leaned over the banister, so that the sun glinted off of the yellowed hilts of her daggers. "I want to take a look at your manifest." _And your hold_, she added, mentally.

Delgado shook his head. "Castillon said you weren't to come aboard! He made a _guarantee_!" And whenever the pirate-lord guaranteed something, you could consider it done.

But Isabela had also made a guarantee; she wouldn't ever be party to slaving. Castillon knew that even more thoroughly than he knew Velasco's broken tooth. "Is that your answer, then, Delgado?"

A moment passed, in which the other captain yammered in Antivan with his own first mate. "It is," he confirmed. "Now get back to a good distance, and see us to Rialto, as you promised."

Isabela was fairly certain he blessed her with a string of curses, but her heart thudded too loudly in her ears to properly make them out. "Very well," she called, before turning crisply toward the main deck of the _Siren's Call_.

Casavir spoke up again. "If we lose this payday, some of the crew might not take it in their stride," he warned in Rivaini, the least-spoken tongue on the ship.

Isabela cast him an icy glance, but didn't bother replying. "Full stations! Prepare to board!" At her command, two-thirds of the crew dropped their pretense of working and readied their weapons. A few bows, plenty of swords, and three strong grappling hooks appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The _Golden Stream_ looked to make her escape, but she hung too low in the water to outpace the _Siren's Call_. When her ship closed in range of the hooks, Isabela turned back to Delgado. "Last chance to show me the books," she warned him.

The man hesitated. At this distance, she could see the mixture of outrage and fear that told her he'd be easy to goad into violence and even easier to draw into death, if she cared to. "They're just refugees!" He sounded desperate. "They paid their way to Antiva, to get away from the darkspawn!"

And Isabela might believe that, and live the rest of her days without a second thought for it. But she'd made herself a promise; promises to other people were something like suggestions, but promises to herself were much rarer-and much harder to break . A last glance over her crew settled the matter; even if it lost them their payday and lost her half of them to mutiny, it would be well-worth not having to chase her guilt to the bottom of a bottle of rum every night. "Hooks!"

At her word, the three hookmen threw the grapplers across the _Stream's_ bannister, where they sunk into the soft wood. A scant handful of heartbeats later and a soft _crack_ sounded as the hulls came together. The lines were tied off, and Isabela was the first one across the narrow gap. Within five minutes, it became crystal clear just why Castillon had bargained on Isabela's hard-nosed crew to protect Delgado; the man himself was a decent rogue, but his underlings were rawboned at best, and it wasn't long before _Backstabber_ nestled into the pit of Delgado's throat and he was forced to concede defeat.

"Joschke, open the hold!" Isabela's throat was thick with excitement from the all-too-brief battle; a quick glance told her that a few of her fighters had light injuries, but most of the blood on the _Golden Stream's_ deck was from Delgado's crew.

The captive captain's spit landed in her left eye, and _Heartbreaker_ found its way between the man's legs. "Castillon will use your guts to caulk my ship when he hears of this, bitch!"

Isabela blinked to clear her vision. "Aww...is poor Delgado going to tattle to big daddy Castillon?" She chuckled sultrily, drawing closer to him, until she could smell the stink of his rotten teeth. "He agreed to my terms..._guaranteed_ them, even," she sing-songed. "So if he's broken his word to me, what makes you think he'll keep it for you?" The captain shoved her prisoner away, and Casavir moved to bind him. "Joschke! The hold!"

The big Ander swordsman finally managed to lever up the heavy door. Just as he did so, the wind changed, and Isabela nearly gagged at the stench which blossomed from the bowels of the ship. In three paces she stood at the edge of the portal, and the sight waiting to greet her nearly made her lose her breakfast-packed so tightly that they had to stand were the dirtiest, sorriest group of people Isabela had ever seen. Elves and humans of all ages were shackled, even children. The Rivaini was almost certain she spied a suckling babe chained to its mother's arm.

Rage. A rage unlike anything she'd ever felt washed over Isabela. "That complete _bastard_," she grunted, turning away from the hold. Delgado stammered in fast Antivan, but Isabela was beyond listening to him. Half-blind from anger, she strutted up to the man without any grace and opened his throat in front of his whole crew. That set them to wailing in half-a-dozen languages, but as their captain fell to the deck, Isabela sent a scathing look over them all. "Estwatch is that way," she shouted, pointing off to her right. "Those of you that can swim have a chance. Those that can't...knew what you were signing up for." _Or you should have_, Isabela thought.

Casavir, sturdy as always, glanced her way. "Are you sure, Captain?"

"Damned sure," the Rivaini shot back. "Overboard! The lot of them!" She had to close her eyes against the sound of splashing; the last time she'd given the order, it had been the slaves on her own ship who'd been tossed in the drink, still chained. Delgado's first mate thought to buy his own life by offering the skeleton key to the slaves' cuffs, but Casavir took it off him and tipped him over the bannister all the same. After that, it was a job convincing the hold's occupants that they were really being set free, but by midnight that night Isabela had grounded the _Golden Stream_ on a sandbar within sight of Thedas proper. It was a swamp halfway between the Free Marcher cities of Wycome and Hercinia, but it was a damned sight better than Minrathous...or the bottom of the sea .

* * *

Isabela's reverie faded as she observed her crew loading up barrels of salted meat, ripe lemons, and fresh water. She didn't intend to get caught-out again without at least two weeks' worth of provisions for all of her men. True, about half of the sailors had abandoned her shortly after the fiasco that Isabela was now trying to make amends for, so much of the new batch been crewed with the _Call_ for less than a year...but the captain knew that starving the scallywags wouldn't exactly inspire loyalty.

Casavir brought her a mug of spiced rum. "Do you think the Qunari have gone, Captain?"

"I doubt it," she sighed, before tossing the drink back in a couple of gulps. The burn was an old friend in her throat, and a warm tingle at her belly. "We'll rest on the dock for another hour, or until Bright-eyes catches sight of a horn-head's boat. Then we'll tack out to sea again and slingshot ourselves straight to Denerim." Isabela limped over to the wheel, her hip still sore from the Orlesian rapier she hadn't been able to dodge. "We really need to get an apostate aboard."

Her first mate simply grunted, and she saw that he sipped his own mug thoughtfully.

"I know, I know," Isabela scoffed. "The green-timbers would like to riot for fear of abominations, and you wouldn't like to add the Chantry to our growing list of _interested parties_."

"Aye, Captain," was all that Casavir had to say.

They passed half an hour that way, idly chatting, alternately boasting about taking the Orlesian ship and complaining about the necessity of the operation in the first place, and the lack of time they'd been given to carry it out. Even though the _Siren's Call_ was one of the fastest boats on the water, they'd only caught up with the nondescript Orlesian transport with scant minutes to spare-the Qunari's ship arrived for the appointed _rendez-vous _at the mouth of the Northern Passage, frightfully close to Par Vollen, just as the Orlesian ship's deck was going up in flames.

Three of her crew died in the assault, for even though the barque didn't look fancy, it had been packed with _chevaliers_ as well as tough sailors. "We still got the prize, though," Isabela sing-songed, a bit of her old self cutting through the stress and worry that the last few days had brought. "Don't we?" She cut a glance to Casavir, her smirk threatening to fall.

The man nodded. "Indeed we do, Captain," he assured her. "I checked the package and locked the chest...and locked the door to your cabin."

"Good man," Isabela commended him. A mischievous voice whispered in her mind to double-check, but she mentally shouted it down; the captain didn't trust anyone completely, not even herself, but she knew that she could trust Casavir in this. "We lose the relic, and we lose our necks, one way or another."

"One way or another," Casavir agreed. He opened his mouth again, but a sharp call from above them cut him off.

"Horn-head!" Brand barked. "Comin' in fast, Captain!"

No time to be afraid. "Stand-to, you sad bunch of narwhal-fuckers! Up anchor, shove off, and full sail!" The reaction was nearly immediate, for though the crew was supposed to be resting, the ever-present threat had them all on edge. The dock's ties were cut rather than undone and a pair of burly Nevarran seamen winched the anchor from the shallows in less than a minute. By then, Isabela could spot the dark mahogany stain on the Northern horizon; she was glad that she'd put the starboard side to the docks. For a few tense moments, the _Call_ merely floundered in Skrim's Harbour, as Casavir worked to catch the wind on the lateen sails. The dreadnaught did not have that problem, since it was powered by oars and ox-men's muscle. At last, Isabela's ship edged out of the harbour and caught onto a good wind. The deck shivered in that special way, and the Qunari ship quit gaining on them. "Starboard by half, Casavir," the captain breathed.

"Aye, Captain," came the first mate's response, and he spun the wheel a half-turn counter-clockwise.

"Bronze bastards must've been shadowing Estwatch while we zig-zagged out in the blue," Isabela mused. "Either they've already resupplied, or we'll get lucky and gain a few hours." Casavir grunted, but had no answer for her.

Luck was with them, or at least it seemed to be, for the dreadnought fell below the horizon just as land did. That didn't stop Isabela from pulling out all of her tricks to get the _Siren's Call_ to gallop through the waves. The hold was still light, despite the provisions, since the only other cargo they had could fit inside of a single chest beneath her bed. It looked like it was working, too; as the sun settled over the continent beyond the Western horizon, Isabela thought they just might make Denerim after all. The _Call _still sailed at right-angles to the direct path, straight out into open water, but the likelihood of arriving at their destination seemed to grow by the minute.

She should have known better, though. After ten days on the sea without sight of another ship, Isabela had almost grown complacent. On the eleventh day after Estwatch, she was awakened by a hard knock to her cabin door. "Captain!" The sound of Casavir's voice was enough to send icewater through her guts. "Bright-eyes says you need to see this!" When she scrambled onto the quarter-deck, the Rivaini saw that Brand had his spyglass at full length, pointed directly behind their course.

Isabela turned and squinted in the new light of the morning, but she could make out nothing, save deep blue water and orange-purple sky. "Alright," she yelled. "I'm coming up!" It had been months since she'd had to climb the mainsail, but the captain slunk up it like it was an old friend...a really _good_ old friend. When she reached the top, she took the spyglass and followed Brand's finger. With her human eyes, Isabela still had trouble making anything out on the horizon, until the light shifted a certain way. When it did, the captain nearly fell off of her perch, and her heart definitely fell through her boots. "Oh, _shit_."

The dreadnought was still on them, after all. Or, rather, a _different_ dreadnaught was on them...since it had something that only very powerful Qunari ships ever bothered with.

The bloody fucking thing had _sails_.

"Means they mean business, doesn't it, Captain?" Brand's voice was so low that Isabela had a hard time hearing it over the whipping wind and her own pounding heart. "One of their generals, right?"

The pirate captain swallowed. Hard. "Right," she said. "A sodding _Arishok_."

Brand let off a high-pitched laugh. "Did we fuck up, Captain?"

"I think so, Bright-eyes," Isabela growled, a shade of the anger she'd felt last year returning. "I really think so." She handed the elf his spyglass and took the rails three at a time on her way down the mast, leaping down onto the deck from higher up than was strictly wise. Rolling to absorb the fall, Isabela let out a scream of frustration. "We've got company coming in! If we work hard, we might be able to slip them in Brandel's Reach!" She knew that the large Fereldan island couldn't be more than two days' sailing, and she had cause to know its reefs much better than the Qunari would.

The captain gave the orders; they dumped everything that wasn't nailed down, except the water and enough provisions for a week of half-rations...and the relic, of course. Even the lamps, spare rigging, and tools. That, along with Casavir's expertise at the wheel and Isabela's sense for the wind, gave them most of the day without actually being able to see more than a dot on the horizon behind them. By the next morning, however, the dot had become a smear...and by that evening, within sight of Brandel's Reach, Brand gave them even more bad news. An armada of three Orlesian ships waited for them in the channel between Brandel's Reach and Alamar Island, with two more closing in from the Southeast.

It was official, then. Castillon had sold her out to the Orlesians, and gotten her to sign her own death warrant by taking the relic, ensuring she'd get chased down by the Orlesians _and_ the Qunari. And if by some miracle she succeeded, Isabela was certain he'd find some excuse to turn his portion of the Felicisima Armada against her. "Balls," she grunted, shoving Casavir away from the wheel and yanking it hard clockwise.

"What's your plan, Captain?" Her first mate sounded confused, and possibly even a little scared.

The pirate yanked her head toward the Free Marches. In the deep distance, a squall-line of clouds roiled just inland, and at this time of year it was likely to head South and cover the Waking Sea for days. "We'll see if the damned horn-heads and the cheese-eating codsuckers can handle some foul weather," she snapped. It was madness, pure and simple; not only had they lost the tools that might help them weather the storm, but the Waking Sea led directly to Val Royeaux itself, the capitol city of the Orlesian Empire. Yet there were plenty of coastal settlements in Ferelden and the Free Marches where her crew might get themselves lost until she could sort out her disagreements with Castillon.

_And by sort out_, she thought to herself, _I mean to have the bastard's balls for my breakfast_.

"You're a fool, Casavir," Isabela said with a cackle. "A loyal fool, right to the end."

Casavir sucked in a breath. "As you say, Captain," he affirmed.

Isabela glanced over her shoulder for an instant, sweeping her gaze from the wall of canvas behind them to the tempest in front. But which storm would get the better of them? Her fingers tightened on the wheel and her feet dug into the deck as a shudder passed through the wood, and the pirate found herself exulting in the pull of the sea. As the sun set, a single shaft of golden light pierced the clouds, gleaming in her eye, and Isabela couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so alive .


	11. Rosencrantz

Author's note: Thanks, as ever, to the awesomely-excellent **clafount_. _**You should really check out her work!

* * *

The twins hadn't left Gamlen's house in seven days. It had taken three of those for them to recover from wounds they'd earned from carving their way out of the Red Iron, with a trail of bodies in their wake. Bethany still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, only that Carver had shaken her awake in the small hours one morning, with a sack over his shoulder and too much crimson on his plate. The halls had been filled with angry shouting and acrid hints of smoke from spells that the older mage, Tobrius, was flinging to keep the rest of the mercenaries from their door. The two mages, the warrior, and the mabari had cut a swathe through the barracks, laying waste to two-thirds of the men and women who called it home on their way. Tobrius left the siblings at Gamlen's doorstep, though he promised to one day return.

Aveline visited not long after, while the twins were still recuperating, but Carver refused to say anything and none of the surviving mercenaries seemed apt to cooperate with her investigation. So, with no evidence, the captain-in-training left the Hawkes with a stern warning that murder was still a crime in Kirkwall, and asked them to keep themselves under wraps for at least a week. So they idled in the cramped Lowtown hovel with their mother, while Gamlen spent most of his time out, doing Maker-knew-what. At least Bethany had salvaged a few of the books she'd found the most useful, but she took care to keep those hidden, lest her uncle try to pawn them off for a few silvers.

What little time she'd spent in the man's company over the past two years convinced Bethany that he was the least-trustworthy person she could imagine. Whenever she tried to ask him about her grandparents, or the estate that they once owned, he got moody and evasive. So it was a surprise when, that evening, he called the young Hawkes into the large common room upon his return.

"I've been keeping my ear to the ground," he told them, his tone oddly jovial. "I think I might have something for the pair of you. A job, I mean."

Carver raised an eyebrow. "Signed us up to start at the Rose to settle a debt?" It was an open secret that Gamlen spent much of his 'free time' at the establishment.

The older man blanched, or would've done, if his face were clean enough to notice. "Andraste's ass, boy, listen to me. You need work and I've got a line on how to get it. If you'd step two feet out of my house once in awhile, you'd have heard of it by now, yourself. Almost everyone in Lowtown knows about it, so I've nothing to gain...except some peace and quiet."

Bethany spoke up. "If you have any information, Uncle, we'd appreciate it." What coin they'd scraped together from their service, and stole at its end, wouldn't last them long now that they'd have to deal with the templars on their own.

"There's a couple of dwarves in Hightown who're looking to go into the Deep Roads," Gamlen informed them. "Rumour has it they need people of skill to keep them safe from the darkspawn."

A gasp sounded from the bedroom Gamlen shared with his sister. "Oh, Maker," Leandra lamented. "Why does it have to be more darkspawn?" The mage shared a look with her mother; it was nearly two years since Cethlenn left them, but the wound was still fresh in Leandra's soul. Bethany still missed her sister, as well.

Carver didn't seem eager to jump at the opportunity, either. "What are they hoping to find down there?"

"How the blazes should I know that, boy?" Gamlen threw up his hands. "Word's out that a shortman called Bartrand is looking for a few hands to take him where he and his brother want to go, and get them back in one piece." It was to the older man's credit, perhaps, that he didn't back down at the stare Carver gave him. The warrior had put on a _lot_ of muscle in the last couple of years.

"I imagine there's treasure down there," Bethany murmured, half to herself. Her voice seemed to cut the tension in the air, and everyone looked at her. "Well, the darkspawn aren't exactly pawnbrokers," she went on. "The histories say that dwarven kingdoms spanned Thedas, beneath the ground, before the Blights started." The mage shrugged. "Perhaps this Bartrand fellow just wants a chance to reclaim some history."

Gamlen snorted. "Wants to get himself enough gold to bathe in virgins' blood, more like." The man shook his head. "All that matters is that he hasn't left yet, and there may be some work for the pair of you. Out of this house, and out of the city. Surely that's got to be worth going to the Merchants' Guild."

"Why," Carver gruffed, "that almost sounded thoughtful." He threw his twin a look, and when she nodded slightly, his face set. "Alright," he relented. "Let me get dressed..."

Despite the notoriety it would bring, or perhaps _because_ of it, Carver decided to traipse up the cliff into Hightown in his dragon armour. Bethany and Barcus strode beside him; the mage had resewn her red chainmail into clothes of white and blue, and she took care to plant her staff with every step, mindful of how thin the pretense of using a walking stick must seem. Nevertheless, Aveline's guards gave them a wide-enough berth, and no templars came rushing from the white-flagstoned alleyways as the siblings navigated the wealthy quarter of the city.

Their first stop was the bustling market square, which was itself nearly the size of Lothering. The only dwarf they knew was a runecrafter by the name of Worthy, who operated a stall on the edge of the marketplace. Both Bethany and Carver had been tasked with trucking with him during their stint in the Red Iron. Fortunately, his red-brown beard twitched with a smile when he caught sight of them.

"Hawke," the dwarf called. "And Beth! I'm surprised to see you two. Heard somebody tore through the Red Iron like it was a paper dragon," he said, chuckling. "I never thought anybody'd show Meeran to his grave."

Bethany caught the shadow which passed over Carver's expression, and her curiosity nearly got the better of her, but he spoke first. "We made it out," he offered. "Been lying low for a few days, but it should be safe enough."

The crafter whistled, clearly impressed. "If there was anyone I'd say could carve their way out of an ambush, it'd be you two," he commented. "It must be harder to get by now, though, for a couple of dog lords." Barcus whined from Bethany's side, and Worthy shook his head. "This one's always hungry," he grunted, but fished around in his pocket for some jerky, all the same. He tossed it, and the dog had it snapped up half a heartbeat later. "But that's all you're getting," the dwarf warned. "Merchants gotta eat, too, you know."

"That's actually what we were after," Bethany broke in, a smile on her lips for the first time in more than a week. She'd always liked bringing Barcus to see the dwarf. "We've heard tell of an operation being put together by a dwarf called Bartrand."

Worthy cocked a brow at her. "And you're wondering if I can get you in on it?" He played at looking offended. "Do all of us look alike to you sodding sky-eaters?"

"Oh, come off it," Carver sighed, smirking. "We know all you beardies stick together like honey rolls."

Worthy's cool facade broke into a grin, but before he could continue the banter, Bethany spoke up again. "If you've heard of the man, or anything about the venture, we'd be terribly grateful, messere."

The dwarf looked from the mage to her dog and back again. "Grateful enough to bring the mutt back to steal some more of my jerky sometime?"

Bethany suppressed a giggle. "Of course," she assured him.

"Great," he replied. "In that case, the guy you're looking for is holed up in the Merchants' Guild."

Carver rolled his eyes. "We knew that already."

"You want my help or not, topsider?" There was just a bit less patience in Worthy's voice. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. "Like I said, Bartrand's set up in the Guild, in an office pavilion that he runs the family businesses from. Sodding blighter's got gold hair and two short beard-braids, with a bristle chin in between." Compared to Worthy's neck-warmer, the dwarf in question was practically bald. "Don't tell him I sent you, though."

"Thank you, messere," Bethany said. That was definitely enough information to help them along.

Just as they turned to go, Worthy spoke up again. "Take care, Hawkes. Don't get dead."

The twins both waved their goodbyes, and set off to find the dwarf of the hour. The Dwarven Merchants' Guild stood on a raised level behind market, ringed with enormous statues of the stout folk nearly ten metres high. Bethany imagined the sight would be far more intimidating in the deep darkness beneath the ground, but the finely-crafted marble gleamed in the sunlight, and everything about the district seemed breathtakingly beautiful after so long cooped-up in Lowtown. It didn't take them long to find a pavilion with a dwarf who matched Worthy's description.

And it didn't take them long to know why the runecrafter didn't want his name aired. "What do you want?" The dwarf behind the table spat, as though they were tax collectors, before either of them could speak.

The mage deferred to her brother, put off by the stranger's temperament. "We want in on your enterprise," Carver blurted out. "To the Deep Roads."

The dwarf drew up, sucking in a breath. He topped out near Bethany's sternum, and spent almost a full minute looking the both of them up and down. His expression went from bad to worse, and a growl started from his chest, so low that Bethany felt it in the soles of her feet. "No," he barked, cutting the growl off abruptly.

Carver's mouth opened, but hardly a sound came out. Anger leeched into his face. "What do you mean, no?"

"I don't need a couple of kids skulking around my expedition," the dwarf answered.

"But we have skills, and experience!" Carver gestured, perhaps unconsciously, to the outline of the dragon splashed across his chest.

The dwarf, whom Bethany presumed was Bartrand, literally spat at their feet. "Ancestors' tits, human! No!"

Bethany swallowed her discomfort. "But...we've fought darkspawn before," she pointed out.

"So've half of the refugees in this dump," the dwarf countered. "I know you're lookin' for an easy way out of the slums, but this ain't your meal ticket."

Carver had a different tactic to try, apparently. "Can't we at least buy you a drink, first?"

The dwarf's eyes widened for a brief moment, before he squinted at them again. "Sod off," he said at last. "Before I get you ejected from the square." Short and unarmed the man might be, but he obviously carried some influence with his fellows in the guild.

With a defeated sigh, Carver turned and marched halfway across the plaza. Bethany had to trot to keep up with him. "What are we going to do," she wondered. "That expedition was our only chance!"

The warrior was fuming, but his expression softened when he caught sight of his sister. "We'll...figure something out," he managed. "We've made a name for ourselves, these last two years. It can't all have been for nothing." Bethany was about to reply, when a stranger suddenly collided with Carver. "Watch out," he growled, pushing the boy away. Two steps later, the mage saw her brother pawing at his belt. "Hey!"

They both turned to give chase to the thief, but before they broke into a run, the red-haired lad slammed up against a wall from an unseen force. Bethany stopped short; she hadn't sensed magic, but she was wary, just in case. The mystery was solved, however, when a beardless dwarf in a leather duster sauntered up to the boy. "I knew a pickpocket once who could take all the coin from your pockets just by smiling at you," he boasted. "But you? You don't have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchants' Guild." The dwarf slugged the thief and took possession of Carver's coin purse. With a further yank at the boy's shoulder, the dwarf reclaimed a crossbow bolt, while the boy fled.

The dwarf turned toward the Hawkes, casually twirling the bolt in one hand while he weighed the purse in the other. "How do you do?" He asked them, tossing the leather bag in Carver's direction. "Varric Tethras, at your service." Then he unshouldered the fanciest-looking crossbow Bethany had ever seen, taking care to replace the bolt in what looked like the body of the device.

Carver didn't seem to know what to think of the man. "I...guess I should say thank you," he said at last, refastening his purse more securely onto his belt. "But why should I know you?"

"Because you were just haggling with my brother," Varric informed them. "Quite poorly, I might add. No offence."

Bethany stepped in, before Carver decided to take offence anyway. "He seemed set on denying us the work," she said. "Even though we know what we're doing."

The dwarf breathed a long, low sigh, his brow creasing. "Bartrand wouldn't know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw," he lamented. Then his expression brightened. "I, however, am quite practical." His eyes settled on Carver. "With a man like you, we could get this operation into the ground in no time. You've built quite the reputation," he observed.

Carver swallowed, looking slightly embarrassed, even though he'd said much the same thing not half an hour before. "I...well, you must've heard of Bethany, too."

Varric threw a glance her way. "A little," he conceded, "but the name 'Hawke' is on many lips these days, and she's not the reason for that."

Bethany felt a flush rising along her cheeks. "That's quite alright," she assured her brother. "We don't want me getting too much attention, now do we?"

That brought Carver to his senses. "Right." His brows knitted. "What exactly are you proposing, serah?"

Varric scratched at his chest-his luxuriously-hairy chest, Bethany noted, not unpleasantly. "Bartrand's been trying to get this expedition moving for over a year now. He's nearly torn his beard out trying to fund the thing; he's called in every favour he thinks he can get away with, but he just can't do it." The dwarf shook his head. "There're plenty of knuckle-heads around to hire, but there's no guarantee of return, so we're taking on the risk of paying them ourselves."

The warrior nodded. "I guess I can understand that," he conceded. "But it doesn't sound like an offer."

The dwarf waved him off. "We don't need another hireling," he explained. "We need a _partner_. Invest in the expedition," he cajoled them. "Fifty sovereigns and you're good to go. Bartrand can't refuse that offer-not with me there to vouch for you."

Bethany couldn't keep herself from snarking a laugh. "If we had that kind of coin, messere, we wouldn't need to hire on to the expedition in the first place."

A gleam entered Varric's eye that didn't quite settle well with her. "You aren't thinking long-term," he pointed out, and his gaze pivoted to the red staff in her grasp. "Someone in your position in this city needs more than a bit of coin to keep breathing free air." He put up his hands when he saw the flash of panic in her face. "All I'm saying is that this expedition could set you and your family up for life. You could move into Hightown, grease the right wheels, set yourselves up a nice, plum existence."

Carver gave a thoughtful _hmm._ "You just said that there wasn't a guarantee," he shot back at the dwarf.

"In business, there never is," Varric replied. "Anyone who tells you any differently is selling something you don't want to buy." He shrugged. "Think of it as a golden opportunity, instead. After a Blight, there's only a brief window when the Deep Roads won't already be picked over, or crawling with darkspawn. That window's closing fast, however, and if we don't get moving we'll wind up with a fancy expedition and nowhere to go."

Bethany saw that her brother was being won over. He glanced at her, concern tinging his face. "What do you think, Beth?"

"I think we should take it," she answered, almost immediately. Her words surprised her, but they kept coming, seemingly of their own accord. "Better to go into the Deep Roads than sit around waiting to get thrown into the Gallows," she reasoned. "And at least I can _fight_ darkspawn."

Carver inclined his head. "I guess you're right," he conceded. "But," he said, turning back to Varric. "It's all moot, anyhow. You felt my purse...we don't have anything near fifty sovs."

The dwarf's smile was oily enough to start a fire. "That's because you're not connected to the right people," he claimed. "Kirkwall's crawling with work, if you know where to look. And that's where I come in."

"If you know where the money is," Carver interjected, "why haven't you got it already?"

Varric's brows rose. "Me? I'm just a businessman," he demurred.

Bethany nodded to the crossbow he'd put behind his shoulder. "I doubt that petty thief would say the same," she pointed out.

"Okay," Varric relented. "I'm a businessman who occasionally shoots people." He unshouldered his weapon, keeping it pointed low. "Say hello to Bianca."

Carver snickered. "You named your crossbow?"

The dwarf looked offended for an instant. "She and I have a business relationship," he informed them. "If you think you need me to finish a job, I'd be delighted to bring her along. Otherwise I'll be in my room at the Hanged Man," he said, referencing a large pub-and-inn in Lowtown where the bottom four-fifths of Kirkwall society congregated. "You should look me up there if you go more than a couple of days without seeing me."

"Hold a moment," Bethany piped up. "We haven't worked out any terms, really."

"Ah," Varric replied, looking honestly sheepish. "Right. Like I said, I can shake out my contacts for odd jobs. I don't care about a finder's fee, but you should keep aside some coin from each job, and you'll have the fifty sovereigns in a matter of weeks."

Carver picked up where his sister had left off. "And say we invest the money. What can we expect from it?"

"My brother and I are partners," Varric explained, collapsing and shouldering Bianca. "Real partners, I mean. If you put up the money, you two'll become a third equal partner, and we'll split whatever we find three ways. The money for the excavators and guards is what you'll be contributing, so even if we don't find anything down there, you won't lose anything more than the fifty you put in." Carver gave one last look to Bethany, and when she nodded, he extended his hand. Varric took it with obvious relief. "Now, where do we go, Hawke?"

Carver's brow drew down. "I thought that was your end of the bargain," he growled.

"It is, it is," Varric assured them. "But if either of you get any offers, I'm willing to help out with them, too. Same terms."

Bethany sucked at her bottom lip. "Maybe Aveline has some more work for us," she mused.

The mage knew that was the wrong suggestion almost at once. "I wouldn't take anything from her if she offered to suck my-" He stopped short, blushing furiously, and turned away. "She's the reason why we're here, anyhow," he finished.

"Well," Bethany ventured, "she did try to help us last year, with that trip near Sundermount."

"Wait," Varric interrupted. "You're saying you're on personal terms with Aveline? _The _Aveline?" When Bethany nodded, he went on. "Guard-Captain Aveline?"

"Right," Carver barked, still turned away from them. "She came over with us, and did some time in the Red Iron, too. Then the bitch turned me down when I applied for a post, even though I helped her become the bloody captain in the first place."

Bethany suddenly remembered that night all too well, and she got a hollow feeling in her stomach. "And we still have business out in Sundermount," she said lightly.

Carver turned back around, then, all the colour gone from his face. "That's right," he agreed. "Do you...think it's too late?"

"Better late than never," Bethany observed.

Varric cleared his throat. "Uh...are you two going to start making sense?"

Bethany blinked and shook her head to clear it. "We...made a promise, to get here," she explained. "We were to deliver an amulet to the Dalish elves camped out on Sundermount, but we haven't got the chance, with one thing and another."

"Do you think they're even there?" Carver looked from his sister to the dwarf and back again.

"Oh, they're there, all right," Varric confirmed. "Those deer-things they keep ran away from them. Without those guys, they don't have anything to drag their landships around, so they're stuck." At the humans' incredulous looks, he laughed. "What? It's my business to know these kinds of things."

Carver gave Bethany another look. "Do you still have it?"

The mage's heart pounded. "I think so," she answered. "It's in the bottom of my trunk." _The false bottom_, she thought to herself, but didn't want to risk airing that, even here.

Her brother glanced over his shoulder to the dwarf. "Feel like taking a side-trip to Lowtown, and then a hike in the hills?"

Varric's lips curled into a cunning smirk. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Hawke. You can tell me about how you all came over here on the way."


	12. Promise Keepers

Author's note: Thanks, always, to **clafount_'s_**beta-reading skills!

* * *

A year, or near enough as made no matter, had passed since the First of Clan Sabrae had fallen prey to a spirit's temptation. Eleven months of inner exile had grown tiresome, even for her; with the way some of her kith grumbled whenever she came near, Merrill feared that they might drive her out of the valley, despite Marethari's insistence that she remain to guide the _ara'vhen_. She hoped that didn't happen-as much for the Keeper's sake as for her own, since the First was _almost_ certain that Marethari would offer protection. At least until the _ara'vhen_ arrived.

Mindful of the tension her very presence caused, Merrill had done little but read and write and practice her magics. This afternoon, she nestled halfway up the path to Sundermount, well out of sight of her clan...except the archer posted to keep her from approaching the cave to the _vir'shiral_ alone. She sat cross-legged, with a little spirit wisp hovering just over her lap. The First was attempting a complicated hex, which would turn the wisp from its pale green to a deep purple colour; when cast on people, it would give them horrifying waking dreams, giving the caster a chance to make an escape. Such skills would be necessary, after her clan finally got the chance to expel her.

The glowing orb rippled beneath Merrill's attention, turning from green to a bright, flashing blue. Her brows knitted, but a sudden crunching sound tickled her ears, and the First realised that she wasn't alone on the path. With a jolt, she banished the wisp back to the Beyond and scrambled to her feet, prepared to weather another disdainful diatribe from one of her kith. The sight which met her eyes was much more shocking, however; two _shem'len_ and a _durgen'len_, along with a _fen'eth_. A closer look revealed the beast to be a mabari hound, celebrated of Ferelden.

"What's the matter?" Asked the tall male _shem'len_, and when Merrill looked at him, she had to blink away the reflected sunlight from the silver shell he wore. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Be nice," the female _shem'len_ admonished, throwing the man a long-suffering glance.

Finally, the First found her voice. "You're quite shiny, aren't you?" After all three of the others simply stared at her, Merrill realised that she'd made her comment out loud, and felt her cheeks flush. "Oh! I'm sorry. You must be the _ara'vhen_." A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips, and she found that the last year had passed far too quickly. "_Aneth'ara_."

The _durgen'len_ grunted. "We're supposed to be the what, now?"

"Some elven gibberish," the male _shem'len_ said, dismissively. "Are you this _first_ person the Keeper told us about?"

"I am," Merrill confirmed. _For now_, she added, almost certainly silently. After a heartbeat, another worry struck her. "I'm _so_ sorry," the First breathed. "I didn't ask your names. Unless..." She glanced from the male _shem'len_ to the female. "It's not...rude, to ask a human their name, is it?" Before either could react, she went on. "I'm Merrill. Which you knew already...I'm rambling. Sorry!"

The man snickered. "Stop bloody apologising, already," he said, and held out his hand. "I'm Carver," he informed her. "Carver Hawke."

Uncertainly, Merrill mimicked the gesture, and she nearly jumped back when Carver took her hand in his. It had been more than a year since anyone had touched her, and more than five since any but the Keeper had done so. "I'm sorry," she said again, and then winced. "I'm sorry I don't know any proper greetings," Merrill explained. "And now I'm sorry for being sorry. Sorry!" _Mythal_, she was really making a mess of it.

The man, Carver, simply rolled his eyes. "This is my sister, Bethany," he explained, tilting his head to the woman.

"It's nice to meet you," Bethany said, by way of introduction. "I apologise on behalf of my brother. He can be as thick as a tree sometimes." Merrill found herself relieved when the woman didn't offer her own hand to clasp. The First sensed the subtle vibration of magic coming from the other woman, and was certain that Bethany recognised it in her, but neither made mention of the fact.

Except for a growl, Carver seemed to ignore his sister's ribbing. "And this is Varric...he's an associate of ours."

Merrill took a second look at the third person. He was shorter than the two _shem'len_ by at least a third, but he held himself as though he stood twelve feet tall. "I've never seen a _durg_-dwarf," she corrected herself, "until now."

The shorter man simply nodded, but Bethany spoke up. "Why are you leaving the Dalish for Kirkwall?"

"I am?" It took Merrill half a heartbeat to understand that the Keeper must have told the _shem'len_ to take her away. She'd probably planned to since that night, with the spirit. "I mean, I am!" Swallowing, the First nodded to herself, her stomach aflutter with the prospect. "And...I have to. Let's leave it at that for now, alright?"

Carver shrugged. "Suits me." For some reason, he seemed to find her face fascinating, which made her look away with another hinted blush. "You seem awfully nervous, though. Anything the matter?"

The First cast a glance up the path, wondering just how much she should explain. From what she knew of _shem'len_ culture and religion, it was best if they didn't learn too much of what they'd have to face on the path, and her own involvement in it. "It's...nothing," she explained, turning back to them. "I've never met a human before, either. Dalish mothers tell stories about you to frighten their children into behaving." Her eyes widened and she nearly bit her bottom lip off. "Not you, personally, of course! I'm sure they don't have any tales about you," Merrill assured them. "Or any scary ones, at least." The man opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, she pressed on. "N-not that you aren't notable enough to have a story...I'll just shut up, now."

The dwarf, Varric, picked up where she left off. "Now that we've all been properly introduced," he began, but the mabari cut in with a bark.

"Right," Merrill mused, turning her attention to the _fen'eth_. "And who might you be, then?"

A giggle sounded from the woman. "His name's Barcus," Bethany let on, and the dog pulled a smug grin.

The name brought a smile to the First's lips. On a whim, Merrill put out her hand; the halla sometimes let themselves be petted, and she wondered if Barcus was in the mood. In return, the dog slinked closer, rubbing one of its flanks along her leg. The elf stumbled under his weight, and wound up tripping. Before she fell, however, Merrill felt a pair of strong hands close around her shoulders.

"Watch it," Carver warned her, and the First couldn't find an answer when she caught sight of those sapphire eyes. For the space of a breath, he held her by the shoulders, not pushing her properly to her feet until his sister cleared her throat. " Sorry," he gruffed, glancing away once he saw she'd regained her balance.

"That's...alright," Merrill allowed. "Thank you. I'm afraid...I'm not very experienced with your kind." She looked up the mountain path once more. "I've spent my life studying the lore of the Dalish, and magic." She'd delayed enough. "There will be obstacles along the way to the _vir'shiral_," Merrill admitted. Best to warn them, even if she was vague. "I can help get us past them."

Carver stepped up beside her, surveying the winding incline. "We're going to a versherral?"

Merrill's laugh surprised her, but she cut it off before it could give her a giggling fit. "_Vir'shiral_," she corrected him. "A place where the ancient elves slept, or travelled to the Beyond." The First bit her lip, regarding the group warily. "Those that have remained won't sleep peacefully anymore, however." Not after Marethari had sewn the magical traps into the cairns, at any rate. "We should go," Merrill advised them. "The path can be treacherous at night, even for the People."

The human at her side gestured for her to take the lead. With a touch of nerves, Merrill unlimbered her staff and set to walking the pathway, back up the mountain. As she'd suspected, the presence of the _shem'len_ triggered some deep magic on the mountain-either activated by the Keeper or sewn into the soil eons before-and before too long they were all fighting off risen skeletons. When the bones were still once more, Carver looked at her again. "The Keeper didn't mention you were a mage," he commented, though the observation held no malice that she could detect...unlike most emotions, Merrill had encountered that one often enough, in the last twelvemonth.

"All Keepers know a bit of old magic," Merrill replied. "I...would have become the Keeper of this clan, eventually."

"Right," Bethany broke in. "She did mention you were her apprentice. We should've realised sooner."

Merrill gave a bit of a shrug. "The stories tell us that all _El'vhen_ once had the gift," she told them. "But...like so many things, it was lost." It was unlikely that the two humans and the dwarf were sorely lacking a history lesson in the crimes of the ancient Tevinters, though, so the First shook her head. "It's a Keeper's job to remember," she lamented. "To restore what we can."

The man looked like he wanted to say something, but when his sister spoke in time with him, he ceded to her. "But don't the templars seek you out?"

"They can," Merrill conceded. "But as long as we ignore the cities and towns, and never stay in the same place too long, they don't usually bother us."

The other woman's brows knitted. "And the rest of your people don't mind? Having to pick up and move, just to protect a few of you?"

Merrill's lips parted, but she bit back the obvious reply that the _El'vhen_ had tried to settle, in the Dales...but the _shem'len_ elsewhere in Thedas couldn't countenance a free elven land, and had taken it over in a blood-soaked Exalted March. "Why would we stay in one place?" She asked, instead. As ill-graced as the First was, she knew it was rude to make someone sound foolish in front of their friends. So, instead, Merrill thought of another way to deflect the question. "Once we've picked over a hunting ground, there's no reason to stay." And then she remembered that _she_ was the reason her own clan would likely remain in the valley, even after she'd gone. A sigh took her, then. "But our clan is in more danger than most, having lost our halla..."

"But if you go to _Kirkwall_," Carver pointed out, "you'll be an apostate in a city full of templars."

It became too much to face them, for just a moment, so Merrill turned away. "I know," she whispered, uncertain if they could even hear her. Humans had notoriously poor hearing. "But if I don't go to Kirkwall...I'll be alone," she explained; she'd thought that would be her fate, until these strangers had given her a new one. That helped her regain a bit of her courage, and Merrill regarded them again. "A solitary elf is easy prey for anyone. At least in the city, I can get lost in the crowd...like you, I imagine," she said, glancing to Bethany. Before the other mage could reply, Merrill pressed on. "We should keep going, though. _Asha'bellanar_ isn't known for her patience..."

Both of the humans looked at one another with worried expressions, while the dwarf studied everything far too closely, but nobody said anything until the party reached the site of the landslide Marethari had caused. Then the archer stepped from the shadow of the mountain, offering them all a sneer. "So, the Keeper finally found someone to take you from here."

His name was Lish'a, and Merrill had known him for nearly all of his life, and that made the poison of his tone cut her all the more deeply. "Yes," she affirmed, hoping the watery feeling in her eyes was an illusion.

Lish'a turned his gaze onto Carver. "Then finish your task quickly, _shem'len_. We cannot be rid of _this one_," he growled that last, pointing to Merrill, "too soon." Then the man stalked off, back down the mountainside.

The warrior looked taken aback, and then a bit angry. "What's going on here, Merrill?"

"Nothing," the First replied, remarking upon the sound of her name in a voice other than Marethari's. "Just ignorance, and fear." She turned to the path again. "A landslide blocked the easy path, but there's a cavern that'll let us through. Take care." Once they reached the mouth of the cave, however, a sense of guilt tugged at the First. "I'm sorry," she said, just before they stepped into the dimness. "You're not...really seeing the Dalish at our best. We're good people," she asserted, though her voice shook with the effort. "Who look out for each other. Just...not today, apparently."

Both of the humans looked skeptical. It was Carver who spoke up, this time. "Is...there anything we can do to help?"

Merrill looked from his face to the cavern. "It's kind of you to ask," she answered, "but I'll be fine." Then, mostly to herself, she muttered, "I'll see it through no matter what they think." And before the humans could delay her immediate task with further questions, Merrill plunged into the cave's mouth.

Within, they faced gargantuan spiders who'd been magically primed to attack humans. Merrill did her bit to help, flinging spells and hexes at the creatures, but she was nearly hypnotised by the synergy that the humans expressed while they fought. The warrior sliced into his opponents with overwhelming force, and his sister followed not far behind, freezing and burning with equal measure, while Barcus guarded her flanks. The dwarf hung back, like Merrill herself, and he spared the elf a wry grin when the battle was done.

Another nest fell with similar ease, and soon enough, the five of them emerged onto the higher path. Already the light was weaker, so they would have to hurry to complete their task and make it back through the cavern before full dark.

Yet the barrier which Marethari had erected the previous year held firm, transparent blue energy spanning the gate to the _vir'shiral_. The Keeper would have known that Merrill wasn't strong enough to dissipate it, except by making use of the talents which had led to her exile. Perhaps she'd planned it that way, even. With a small shake of her head and a quivering breath, Merrill slunk up to the diaphanous membrane. "I can open the way forward," she informed them. "One moment."

Shouldering her staff, Merrill produced a _da'mis'u_ from a concealed sheath at her hip, and before any of her guests could react, the elf cut deeply into the palm of her hand. The sheer force of her life flowed with her blood, and she gathered it into a ball of red mist, combining the energy with her mana. When the ball of arcane energy struck the barrier, it flickered for a moment, and then faded away. Merrill traced a finger over the wound she'd caused, healing it as best she could, and sheathed the _da'mis'u_ before she turned to face the recriminations sure to come.

Bethany looked shocked, but hardly scandalised. "That...I wasn't expecting _that_."

Swallowing, the First sought to put their minds at ease. "Yes, it was blood magic, but..." She glanced over her shoulder, up to the very top of the mountain. "The spirit helped us, didn't it?"

Carver stepped forward, but to her surprise, he merely shrugged. "That's true enough, I suppose. Just...be careful, alright?" When she looked at him, Merrill didn't sense the hostility she'd come to expect, nor even the surprise that his sister's face had shown.

"I..." She began, but she found she couldn't finish until she glanced down. "I will," she promised. "I have been." When he moved to push past her, Merrill stepped forward, passing through the gates in front of the others. "In the days of Arlathan," she explained, "the elders came here to sleep. _U'then'era_, they called it." With a warning look to the warrior, she moved deeper into the _vir'shiral_. "They don't sleep peacefully anymore, though."

Despite the threads of power Marethari had awoken, the group managed to make it halfway to the altar before the graveyard's defences came into effect. The corpses of long-dead soldiers and mages rose to join battle once more, and the previous fights on Sundermount seemed children's squabbles compared to the altercation amongst the cairns. At one point, Merrill could've sworn she felt an odd ripple in the Veil when Carver came near to protect her from a Shadow Warrior . They locked eyes, and she saw his own flash red for the briefest instant, but the needs of survival kept her from broaching the question.

When at last the _vir'shiral_ was again at peace, Bethany worked to soothe the injuries they'd all sustained. Merrill couldn't assist her; she'd only learned enough healing to close her own self-inflicted wounds, and otherwise she had no talent for it. "Are you ready?" She asked the humans, her heart still racing, but not from the fight.

Bethany dug into the front of her chainmail-clad tunic, and worked the amulet over her head. The woman looked relieved to have it from around her neck.

"Place it on the altar," Merrill told her, dipping her head to the stone slab with the ever-burning flame. "Then I'll begin the Rite." Bethany seemed reluctant to approach the place, and backed away quickly once the amulet had been set down. Firming her resolve, Merrill stepped forward, letting the months of practice take over. Her eyes were half-lidded as she recited the Rite for the Departed, and as she finished it, the elf could feel a great power concentrating at the altar.

Merrill nearly fell over in her rush to scramble backwards, for in front of her very eyes, the amulet glowed a brilliant white. Soon its glow spread, spilling over the stone and filling the air. Form took shape, and for a heartbeat, the glow resembled a great winged beast of legend. But when the light dimmed, no less fearsome a sight stood before them upon the altar.

"Ahh," _Asha'bellanar_ sighed, stepping down from the rock. "And here we are."

"Holy shit," the dwarf mumbled, and Merrill's heart pounded too strongly for her to hear anything else he had to say.

"_An'daran atish'an_, _Asha'bellanar_," Merrill announced, sweeping into a low bow.

The elder made a thoughtful noise. "One of the People, I see," she observed, not unkindly. "So young and bright. Tell me, child, do you know who I am...beyond that title?"

The First would've swallowed, if she'd had any wetness left in her mouth. "I know only a little," she ventured, still not daring to raise her eyes.

"Then stand," _Asha'bellanar_ implored her. "The People bend the knee too quickly, of late."

With a steadying breath, Merrill managed to right herself, though she still did not meet _Asha'bellanar's_ gaze. The older woman turned to the _shem'len_. "So _refreshing_ to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain," she commented. "I half-expected to wind up in some merchant's pocket."

"We tried to get here before now," Bethany said, in a small voice. "We're sorry we're so late."

"It's true," Merrill spoke up, hardly able to believe it. When _Asha'bellanar_ looked squarely at her, the First forced herself to continue. "The Keeper mentioned seeing in a dream that the _ara'vhen_ drew close, a year ago...but then duty called them away."

The woman made another thoughtful noise. "I thank you both for your honesty," she commended them. "As it happens, I foresaw the potential for delay, and accepted the risk. It may have even turned out to my benefit."

Carver took a half-step forward. "So...we were carrying _you_ around, all this time?"

_Asha'bellanar_ cocked her head, and when Merrill followed the woman's stare, she saw the warrior shuffle backwards once more. "Most curious," the older woman observed. "I wonder..." She paused for the space of a breath, then shook her head, regarding the group as a whole. "To answer your question, you carried a small piece...cast adrift from the whole. A bit of flotsam to cling to, in order to ride out the storm."

Varric _harrumphed_. "That doesn't make any sense, lady," he pointed out. Merrill saw that he still had his crossbow out, but it was pointed at his feet.

"It does not need to," _Asha'bellanar_ replied. "Though I am certain you can work it into a fine tale, little man." She looked to the siblings again. "It seems you've made good use of the time that my intercession has granted you thus far. And in turn, you've given me a bit of security, should the inevitable occur...which, if I know my Morrigan, it already has."

"Not that we're not...grateful," Carver ventured. "But why did you need us to bring you here?"

The woman's eyes flashed. "I had...an appointment to keep," she allowed. "That, and I did not wish to be followed. You smuggled me here quite nicely, and for that I thank you."

Bethany bit her lip. "Is this 'Morrigan' person anyone we should know?"

At that, _Asha'bellanar's _face creased with mirth. "She's a girl who thinks she knows what's what better than I, or anyone else, for that matter." The woman shrugged. "And why shouldn't she? I raised her that way, after all."

Another _harrumph_ sounded from Varric. "I can't tell if she's supposed to be your daughter, or your enemy."

"Neither can she," _Asha'bellanar_ conceded. "There is much that none of you will understand," she said. "Know only that you may have saved my life, this day. Just as I once saved your own." As she spoke, _Asha'bellanar_ stepped closer to the humans. "An even trade, I think." Then she turned away, marching halfway back to the altar before regarding them again.

The human mage seemed to gather her courage. "You have plans, I take it?"

_Asha'bellanar_ gave a slight incline to her head. "Destiny awaits us both, dear girl. We have much to do." She turned halfway away from the group, and looked at them from over her shoulder. "Before I go, a word of advice?" When no one aired an objection, the woman turned her back on them, and put one foot upon the altar she'd so recently sprung from. "We stand at the precipice of change," she called out. "The world fears the inevitable tumble into the abyss." Suddenly her voice grew husky, and it must've been difficult for the humans to hear, for they both leaned forward. "Watch for that moment, and when it comes...do not hesitate to leap." Then _Asha'bellanar_ faced them again, her face grave. "It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly."

"Easy for you to say," Carver shot back at her. "You can turn into a bloody dragon."

"An interesting choice of words," _Asha'bellanar_ replied, "given your attire...and what you did to earn it. " That seemed to steal the warrior's courage, for he had no response. Instead, the woman turned her golden eyes upon Merrill. "As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut."

Merrill's mouth worked for a few heartbeats, but after a moment she found her voice. "_Ma serannas_, _Asha'bellanar_," the elf managed.

"Now the time has come for me to leave," _Asha'bellanar_ informed them, stepping closer to the Hawkes. "You have my thanks," she reiterated. "And my sympathy." Then she turned back to the altar, and as she climbed upon it, the woman began to glow. In nearly the blink of an eye, what appeared to be a High Dragon had replaced _Asha'bellanar_. It spread its great wings, and a moment later it was gliding gracefully along the peaks of the Vimmark Mountains.

Merrill's feet carried her only half-wittingly to the altar, amazement overriding her wariness as she watched the great purple beast sail away through the air. When she turned to the others, though, the familiar susurrus tickled at the edges of her ears, and she worried that the other mage might hear it, too. "Let's get back," she forced herself to say. "We should be able to reach the valley before true nightfall, if we hurry."

Varric sauntered past her when she stepped away from the altar. "Just a second," he told them. "There are..." A metallic _clink_ sounded. "...eight whole sovereigns here. When did that happen?"

Carver walked over. "If I'd known she was going to pay us for the trouble, I'd have snuck out here a year ago."

"But then you'd have spent it all at the Blooming Rose by now," Varric commented. Nevertheless, he handed the gold over to the warrior.

A glance told Merrill that Bethany didn't hear the whispers, or at least that she didn't know what they meant, if so. "Can we go now? Please?" The elf met Carver's eyes, and forced herself to hold his gaze, so that he might see her distress.

"Alright," he acceded. "Let's move."

Together, the group picked their way back through the cave and down into the valley that held Merrill's adopted clan. The Keeper greeted them at the foot of Sundermount, and pointed out a path that would get them on the road to Kirkwall before midnight. She didn't spare Merrill a second glance, and when the elf's feet found the road, she knew she was Marethari's First no l onger.


End file.
